s result.

"M. Bullinger found us, as every one else did, in deep affliction;
I handed him your letter without saying a word; he dissembled very
well; and having read it, enquired what I thought about it. I
said, that I firmly believed my dear wife was no more. He almost
feared the same thing, he told me--and then, like a true friend,
entered upon consolatory topics, and said to me every thing that I
had before said to myself. We finished our conversation, and our
friends gradually left us with much concern. M. Bullinger,
however, remained behind, and when we were alone, asked me whether
I believed that there was any ground for hope after such a
description of the illness as had been given. I replied, that I
not merely believed her dead by this time--but that she was
already so on the very day that the letter was written; that I had
resigned myself to the will of God, and must remember that I have
two children, who I hoped would love me, as I lived solely and
entirely for them; indeed, that I felt so certain, as to have
taken some pains to write to, and remind you of the consequences,
&c. Upon this he said, 'Yes, she is dead,' and in that instant the
scales fell from my eyes; for the suddenness of the accident had
prevented my perceiving, what I else should have suspected, as
soon as I had read your letter--namely, how probable it was that
you had privately communicated the real truth to M. Bullinger. In
fact, your letter stupified me--it at first was such a blow as to
render me incapable of reflection. I have now no more to say. Do
not be anxious on my account, I shall bear my sorrow like a man.
Remember what a tenderly loving mother you have had--now you will
be able to appreciate all her care--as in your mature years, after
my death, you will mine, with a constantly increasing affection.
If you love me, as I doubt not but you do, take care of your
health--on your life hangs mine, and the future support of your
affectionate sister. How incomprehensibly bitter a thing it is,
when death rends asunder a happy marriage--can only be known by
experience."

In a few days, Mozart wrote to his father again:--

"I hope that you are now prepared to receive with firmness some
intelligence of a very melancholy and distressing character;
indeed, my last letter, of the 3d, will not have e