."

True to her old attractions, it is pagan Rome that appeals to her most
strongly,--

"and the far-away past, that seems so sad and strange and
near. I am even out of humor with pictures; a bit of broken
stone or a fragment of a bas-relief, or a Corinthian column
standing out against this lapis-lazuli sky, or a tremendous
arch, are the only things I can look at for the moment,--
except the Sistine Chapel, which is as gigantic as the rest,
and forces itself upon you with equal might."

Already, in February, spring is in the air; "the almond-trees are in
bloom, violets cover the grass, and oh! the divine, the celestial, the
unheard-of beauty of it all!" It is almost a pang for her, "with its
strange mixture of longing and regret and delight," and in the midst
of it she says, "I have to exert all my strength not to lose myself in
morbidness and depression."

Early in March she leaves Rome, consoled with the thought of returning
the following winter. In June she was in England again, and spent the
summer at Malvern. Disease was no doubt already beginning to prey upon
her, for she was oppressed at times by a languor and heaviness amounting
almost to lethargy. When she returned to London, however, in September,
she felt quite well again, and started for another tour in Holland,
which she enjoyed as much as before. She then settled in Paris, to await
the time when she could return to Italy. But she was attacked at once
with grave and alarming symptoms, that betokened a fatal end to her
malady. Entirely ignorant, however, of the danger that threatened her,
she kept up courage and hope, made plans for the journey, and looked
forward to setting out at any moment. But the weeks passed and the
months also; slowly and gradually the hope faded. The journey to Italy
must be given up; she was not in condition to be brought home, and she
reluctantly resigned herself to remain where she was and "convalesce,"
as she confidently believed, in the spring. Once again came the analogy,
which she herself pointed out now, to Heine on his mattress-grave in
Paris. She, too, the last time she went out, dragged herself to the
Louvre, to the feet of the Venus, "the goddess without arms, who could
not help." Only her indomitable will and intense desire to live seemed
to keep her alive. She sunk to a very low ebb, but, as she herself
expressed it, she "seemed to have always one little window looking out
into l