“But why did you impose so cruel a restraint upon yourselves?”
“When my sister was attacked with the contagious disease to which all our family were victims, and came to share my asylum, we had never seen one another. Her fright was extreme when she beheld me for the first time. The fear of afflicting her, and still more of increasing her malady by approaching her, made me resolve on this sad kind of a life. The leprosy had only attacked her breast, and I had still some hopes of her being cured. You see the remains of a neglected trellis: it was then covered with a hop-vine that I trained with care, and divided the garden into two parts. On each side of this, I made a little path where we could walk and converse together without seeing or coming too near each other.”
“It would almost seem as if heaven wished to embitter the sad pleasures it still left you.”
“But at least I was not then alone. My sister’s presence gave some cheerfulness to my asylum. I could hear the sounds of her steps. When I returned, at dawn, to pray beneath these trees, the door of the tower would softly open, and my sister’s voice would imperceptibly mingle with mine. In the evening, when I watered my garden, she sometimes walked here at sunset, in the same place where we now are, and I could see her shadow pass and repass over my flowers. Even when I did not see her, there were everywhere traces of her presence. Sometimes it was only a withered flower in the path, or some branch of a shrub she had dropped, but now I am alone, there
is neither movement nor life around me, and the path that led to her favorite grove is already overgrown with grass. Without appearing to observe me, she was constantly studying what could afford me pleasure. When I returned to my chamber, I was sometimes surprised to find vases of fresh flowers, or some fine fruit she had taken care of herself. I did not dare render her similar services, and had even begged her never to enter my chamber, but who can place a limit to a sister’s affection? One incident alone will give you an idea of her love for me. I was walking rapidly up and down my cell one night, tormented with fearful sufferings. In the middle of the night, as I was sitting down a moment to rest, I heard a slight noise at the door. I approached—listened—imagine my astonishment! it was my sister who was praying on the outside of my door. She had heard my groans. She was afraid of annoying me, but wished to be at hand if I needed any assistance. I heard her repeating the Miserere in a low tone. I knelt down by the door, and, without interrupting her, mentally followed her words. My eyes were full of tears: who would not have been touched by so much affection? When her prayer was ended, I said in a low tone: ‘Good-night, sister, good-night: go to bed, I feel a little better. May God bless and reward you for your piety!’ She retired in silence, and her prayer was surely answered, for I at last enjoyed several hours of quiet sleep.”
“How sad must have been the first days after your beloved sister’s death!”
“I remained for a long time in a kind of stupor that deprived me of the faculty of realizing the extent of my misfortune. When at length I came to myself, and was able to
comprehend my situation, my reason almost left me. It was a season doubly sad for me, for it recalls the greatest of my misfortunes, and the crime that came near resulting from it.”
“Crime! I cannot believe you capable of one.”
“It is only too true, and, in giving you an account of that period of my life, I feel too sensibly I shall fall in your estimation; but I do not wish to appear better than I am, and perhaps you will pity while condemning me. The idea of voluntarily leaving this world had already occurred to me in several fits of melancholy, but the fear of God had hitherto made me repel the thought. The simplest circumstance, and apparently the least calculated to trouble me, came near causing my eternal loss. I had just experienced a new affliction. A little dog had been given us some years previous. My sister was fond of him, and after her death the poor animal was, I acknowledge, a real comfort to me. We were, I suppose, indebted to his ugliness for his making our house his refuge. He had been rejected by everybody else, but was a treasure in the asylum of a leper. In gratitude to God for the favor of such a friend, my sister called him Miracle, and his name—such a contrast to his ugliness—and his constant friskiness often dispelled our sorrows. In spite of my care, he sometimes got out, and it never occurred to me it might injure any one. But some of the inhabitants of the town became alarmed, thinking he might bring among them the germ of my disease. They sent a complaint to the commander, who ordered the dog to be killed immediately. Some soldiers followed by several civilians came here at once to execute this cruel order. They put a cord around his neck in my presence,