“To-day she is weaker. Yesterday she spoke of ‘when I am better.’ To-day she speaks of ‘when I am gone.’
“I sit all day in her room, watching the beloved beautiful old face, fanning her, repeating words of encouragement and comfort to her; and she always has a smile for me.
“Outside the window the beautiful laburnum tree which she loves is shaking off its leaves and preparing for winter, and oh! when its golden blossoms come again, this dearest friend of my whole life will be away!”
“Thursday, Oct. 12.—Last night she slept quietly, and her two nurses by her. I went in and out continually, and she scarcely moved. In the morning she was better, and able to sit in the arm-chair near her bed. It was the day on which we always used to try to leave for Rome, and she spoke of it, and this drew her into many pleasant recollections, such as the dear Mother had on her last day here; of the anemones in the Villa Doria at Rome, and the especial corners in which the best were to be found; of the daisies in the Parco S. Gregorio, and of many happy hours spent in other favourite places. She also asked after all the different members of the family, and sent messages to some of them. In the afternoon she was so well that, by her wish, I went down to Hastings to see Ronald Gower, and when I came back, she liked to hear about it.
“But to-night (9 P.M.) she is weaker and the pain and wheezing have increased. I have just read to her, as usual, a litany for the night-watches and several other prayers. She said the ‘Amen’ to each most fervently, and repeated the ‘Lord’s Prayer’ after me. Afterwards I spoke of the comfort prayers and hymns were to the Mother in her illness: ‘Yes, her’s were prayers,’ she said.
“Then she said, ‘I did not think I should be taken away from you so soon as this.’ I said, ‘Perhaps, dear Pettie, it may still be God’s will that you may be raised up to us again, and this is what we must wish and try for.’—‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘and I do try for it—too much perhaps, more than is right perhaps; and yet I am quite resigned either to go or stay: the Lord’s will, that is the best.’
“Then she said, ‘Open that top drawer and take out a box. There are some things in it I wish you to have, things connected with your family which you will value, and my large silver brooch; I wish you to keep that. And I would like you to keep the little bits of chaney that were my mother’s—the lions, and the little cups and saucers that are in your Mother’s room; she liked to see them, and you will: I do not wish them ever to leave this house.’
“‘Dearest Pettie,’ I said, ‘if it should be God’s will that you should not be given back to us, would you wish to be laid by Mother at Hurstmonceaux, or should you be taken to your own mother’s grave at Cheswardine? Whatever you wish shall be done.’ ‘If you please,’ she murmured, ‘Hurstmonceaux would be best. I have been always with you. All my own are passed away. You are more to me than any one else. I should wish to be laid near your dear Mother, and then you would be laid there too.’—‘Yes, dear, we should all be together,’ I said.
“Then she said, ‘You have been everything to me all your life: quite like my own child: all that a child of my own could have been.’
“She always smiles sweetly to see me near her; but she is weaker, and everything is difficult. As Aurora Leigh says—