She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had
bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more
pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained
resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was
incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened
tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in
the simplest language, but touching from its very simplicity. She
told him that she was dying, and did not conceal from him that
his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which
she had experienced, but concluded with saying that she could not
die in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness and her
blessing.
By degrees her strength declined that she could no longer leave
the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped
up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out
upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint nor imparted
to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never
even mentioned her lover's name, but would lay her head on her
mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung in mute
anxiety over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering
themselves that it might again revive to freshness and that the
bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might be
the promise of returning health.
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