CIII.
There was another letter written in a totally altered hand, where the characters crossed and mingled on the page, as if traced in the dark, which said:—
"Raphael, I must say one word more—to-morrow, perhaps, I could not. When I am dead, oh, do not die! I shall watch over you from above; I shall be good and powerful, as the loving God, to whom I shall be united, is good and powerful. After me, you must love again…. God will send you another sister, who will be, moreover, the pious helpmate of your life…. I will myself ask it of him…. Fear not to grieve my soul, Raphael!… I—could I be jealous in heaven of your happiness?… I feel better now I have said this. Alain will forward these lines to you, and a lock of my hair…. I am going to sleep."…
One letter more, almost illegible, contained only these interrupted lines: "Raphael! Raphael! where are you? I have had strength to get out of bed…. I have told the nurse that I wished to be left alone to rest. I have dragged myself along to the table, where I am writing by the light of the lamp…. But I can see no more; …my eyes swim in darkness; … black spots flit across the paper; … Raphael! I can no longer write…. Oh, one word more!"…
Then, in large letters, like those of a child trying to write for the first time, there are two words which occupy a whole line, filling the bottom of the page. "Farewell, Raphael!"