She said little in her illness. She did not suffer much. The feeble frame made little resistance to the low fever which attacked her. The words she spoke were mostly expressions of thankfulness for little services, or entreaties for forgiveness for any little pain she fancied she might have given.
Aunt Agnes and I chiefly waited on her. She was uneasy if we were long away from her. Her thoughts often recurred to her girlhood in the old castle in the Thuringian Forest; and she liked to hear me speak of Chriemhild and Ulrich, and their infant boy. One evening she called me to her, and said, "Tell my sister Hermentrud, and my brother, I am sure they all meant kindly in sending me here; and it has been a good place for me, especially since you came. But tell Chriemhild and Ulrich," she added, "if they have daughters, to remember plighted troth is a sacred thing, and let it not be lightly severed. Not that the sorrow has been evil for me; only I would not have another suffer. All, all has been good for me, and I so unworthy of all!"
Then passing her thin hands over my head as I knelt beside her, she said, "Eva, you have been like a mother, a sister, a child,—everything to me. Go back to your old home when I am gone. I like to think you will be there."
Then, as if fearing she might have been ungrateful to Aunt Agnes, she asked for her, and said, "I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me. The blessed Lord will remember it; for did he not say, 'In that ye have done it unto the least.'"
And in the night, as I sat by her alone, she said, "Eva, I have dreaded very much to die. I am so very weak in spirit, and dread everything. But I think God must make it easier for the feeble such as me. For although I do not feel any stronger I am not afraid now. It must be because He is holding me up."
She then asked me to sing; and with a faltering voice I sung, as well as I could, the hymn, Astant angelorum chori:—
High the angel-choirs are raising
Heart and voice in harmony:
The Creator King still praising,
Whom in beauty there they see!
Sweetest strains from soft harps stealing,
Trumpet notes of triumph pealing;
Radiant wings and white robes gleaming,
Up the steps of glory streaming,
Where the heavenly bells are ringing,
Holy, holy, holy, singing
To the mighty Trinity!
For all earthly care and sighing
In that city cease to be!
And two days after, in the grey of the autumn morning, she died. She fell asleep with the name of Jesus on her lips.
It is strange how silent and empty the convent seems, only because that feeble voice is hushed and that poor shadowy form has passed away!
February, 1522.