one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the old stern
spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and dressed
herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for
herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of
sewing: the servants looked on, and knew what the catching,
rattling breath, and the glazing of the eye too surely foretold;
but she kept at her work; and Charlotte and Anne, though full of
unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope. On that
morning Charlotte wrote thus--probably in the very presence of
her dying sister:--

"Tuesday.

"I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of
hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The
physician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He
sent some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as
these I have never known. I pray for God's support to us all.
Hitherto He has granted it."

The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only
whisper in gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to
Charlotte, "If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now."
About two o'clock she died.

"Dec. 21st, 1848.

"Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will
suffer more in this world. She is gone, after a hard short
conflict. She died on TUESDAY, the very day I wrote to you. I