ady Scott seems to make no way, yet
can scarce be said to lose any. She suffers much occasionally,
especially during the night. Sleeps a great deal when at ease; all
symptoms announce water upon the chest. A sad prospect.

_April 19._--Two melancholy things. Last night I left my pallet in our
family apartment, to make way for a female attendant, and removed to a
dressing-room adjoining, when to return, or whether ever, God only can
tell. Also my servant cut my hair, which used to be poor Charlotte's
personal task. I hope she will not observe it.

_April 21._--Had the grief to find Lady Scott had insisted on coming
down-stairs and was the worse of it. Also a letter from Lockhart,
giving a poor account of the infant. God help us! earth can not.

_May 2._--I wrote and read for three hours, and then walked, the day
being soft and delightful; but alas! all my walks are lonely from the
absence of my poor companion. She does not suffer, thank God, but
strength must fail at last. Since Sunday there has been a gradual
change--very gradual--but, alas! to the worse. My hopes are almost
gone. But I am determined to stand this grief as I have done others.

_May 4._--On visiting Lady Scott's sick-room this morning, I found her
suffering, and I doubt if she knew me. Yet, after breakfast, she
seemed serene and composed. The worst is, she will not speak out about
the symptoms under which she labors. Sad, sad work; I am under the
most melancholy apprehension, for what constitution can hold out under
these continued and wasting attacks.

_May 6._--The same scene of hopeless (almost) and unavailing anxiety.
Still welcoming me with a smile, and asserting she is better. I fear
the disease is too deeply entwined with the principles of life. Yet
the increase of good weather, especially if it would turn more genial,
might, I think, aid her excellent constitution. Still laboring at this
_Review_, without heart or spirits to finish it.

_May 10._--To-morrow I leave my home. To what scene I may suddenly be
recalled, it wrings my heart to think.

_Edinburgh, May 11._--Charlotte was unable to take leave of me, being
in a sound sleep, after a very indifferent night. Perhaps it was as
well. Emotion might have hurt her; and nothing I could have exprest
would have been worth the risk. I have foreseen, for two years and
more, that this menaced event could not be far distant. I have seen
plainly, within the last two months, that recovery was hopele