the face that was once so full of lively
expression? I will not look on it again. Anne thinks her little
changed, because the latest idea she had formed of her mother is as
she appeared under circumstances of sickness and pain. Mine go back to
a period of comparative health. If I write long in this way, I shall
write down my resolution, which I should rather write up, if I could.
I wonder how I shall do with the large portion of thoughts which were
hers for thirty years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time
at least. But I will not blaze cambric and crape in the public eye
like a disconsolate widower, that most affected of all characters.

_May 18._--Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again
opens on us; the air is soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves
glittering. They can not refresh her to whom mild weather was a
natural enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood already hold her;
cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it is not
the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid
among the ruins of Dryburgh, which we have so often visited in gaiety
and pastime. No, no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions
somewhere--somehow; _where_ we can not tell; _how_ we can not tell;
yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious yet certain
hope that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world
can give me. The necessity of this separation--that necessity which
rendered it even a relief--that and patience must be my comfort. I do
not experience those paroxysms of grief which others do on the same
occasion. I can exert myself and speak even cheerfully with the poor
girls. But alone, or if anything touches me--the choking sensation. I
have been to her room: there was no voice in it--no stirring; the
pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been removed
elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but all was calm--calm as
death. I remembered the last sight of her; she raised herself in bed,
and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said, with a sort of smile,
"You all have such melancholy faces." They were the last words I ever
heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite
conscious of what she said. When I returned, immediately (before)
departing, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was but
seven days since.

They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the
apartment of c