lted in some way from being over-pressed in
the matter of work, over-stimulated. I asked the doctor. If he lied to
me, and I do not think he did, he lied like a man, or an angel. "Not in
the least," he said, "it is a constitutional thing; in fact, I may say
that the rational and healthy life the child has lived will help more
than anything to pull him through."

But I can't write of the days. I sleep, half-conscious of my misery. I
suppose I eat, walk, read. But waking is like the waking of a prisoner
who awakes up to be put on the rack, who hears doors open and feet
approach, and sickens with dread as he lies. God's hand is heavy upon
me day and night. Surely nothing, in the world or out of it, can
obliterate the memory of this suffering; perhaps, if Alec is given back
to us, I shall smile at this time of suffering. But, if not--

August 12, 1889.

He is losing ground, he is hardly ever conscious now; he sleeps a good
deal, but often he talks quietly to himself of all that we have done
and said; he often supposes himself to be with me, and, thank God, he
never says a word to show that he has ever feared or misunderstood me.
I could not bear that. Yesterday when I was with him, he opened his
eyes on me; I could see that he knew me, and that he was frightened. I
could not speak, but Maud, who was with me, just took his hand and with
her own tranquil smile, said, "It is all right, Alec; there is nothing
to be frightened about; we are here, and you will soon be well again."
The child closed his eyes and lay smiling to himself. I could not have
done that.

August 13, 1889.

He died this morning, just at the dawn. I knew last night that all hope
was over. I was with him half the night, and prayed, knowing my prayers
were in vain. That I could save him no suffering, could not keep him,
could not draw him back. Maud took my place at midnight; I slept, and
in the grey dawn, I woke to find her standing with a candle by my bed;
I knew in a moment, by a glance, that the end was near. No word passed
between us; I found Maggie by the bed; and we three together waited for
the end. I had never seen any one die. He was quite unconscious,
breathing slowly, looking just like himself, as though flushed with
slumber. At last he stirred, gave a long sigh, and seemed to settle
himself for the last sleep. I do not know when he died, but I became
aware that life had passed, and that the little spirit that we loved
had fled, God k