Yours most affectionately.


Yesterday there was a consultation. On leaving the house my old doctor's
eyes were moist; he strove to hide it, but I saw a tear. My child must
be very ill then? The thought is dreadful, dear. They seek to reassure
me, but I tremble.

The night has not brought any improvement. Still this fever. If you
could see the state of the pretty little body we used to admire so.
I will not think of what God may have in store for me. Ice has been
ordered to be put to his head. His hair had to be cut off. Poor fair
little curls that used to float in the wind as he ran after his hoop.
It is terrible. I have dreadful forebodings.

My child, my poor child! He is so weak that not a word comes now from
his pale parched lips. His large eyes that still shine in the depths of
their sockets, smile at me from time to time, but this smile is so
gentle, so faint, that it resembles a farewell. A farewell! But what
would become of me?

This morning, thinking he was asleep, I could not restrain a sob. His
lips opened, and he said, but in a whisper so low that I had to put my
ear close down to catch it: "You do love me then, mamma?"

Do I love him? I should die.


NICE.