Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death.
She had nearly finished the second volume of her tale when
Branwell died,--after him Emily,--after her Anne;--the pen, laid
down when there were three sisters living and loving, was taken
up when one alone remained. Well might she call the first chapter
that she wrote after this, "The Valley of the Shadow of Death."

I knew in part what the unknown author of "Shirley" must have
suffered, when I read those pathetic words which occur at the end
of this and the beginning of the succeeding chapter:--

"Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.

"Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night
after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead;
the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the
soul utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my
beloved,' it may implore. 'Heal my life's life. Rend not from me
what long affection entwines with my whole nature. God of
Heaven--bend--hear--be clement!' And after this cry and strife,
the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which
used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of
skylarks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips
which colour and heat have quitted,--'Oh! I have had a suffering
night. This morning I am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot.
Dreams I am unused to have troubled me.'

"Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new
and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that
the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will