soon. A few days more or less are not worth
reckoning in so long a captivity; and you
may risk all by forestalling the favourable
moment.

"My dear Louis, I am only uneasy on one
account, if I must tell you so: I fear the effect
of my death upon your imagination. When you
behold this body deprived of life, it will strike
you with a feeling of terror, perhaps of horror
and disgust, which is very unreasonable, but
which many people cannot overcome.

"And why should you be afraid of the
remains of your aged friend? Are you afraid of
me when I am asleep? The other day, when I
fainted, you did not believe me capable of harming
you; you saw nothing but the necessity of
assisting me, and you did your duty like a
courageous man. Well, then, if you should see me
fall into that final swoon which is called death,
behave with equal presence of mind. My body
will require from you only one last service: dare
to render it, when nature has warned you that
the moment is come. Your strength will be
quite sufficient; you gave proof of it the other
evening, when you carried me and laid me upon
this bed.

"You see that door; it leads to the dairy,
where we never go now, because it is useless to
us. You will there dig a grave as deep as you
can make it, to receive my body, until you return
to fetch it in the spring and give it a regular
funeral in the village cemetery.

"After those sad moments, you will find this
dwelling very lonely; you will shed many tears;
you will perhaps call me, and I shall not answer.
Do not waste your strength in useless regrets.
Address your thoughts solely to Him who never
fails to answer when we invoke Him with confidence."

Such were the exhortations which I received
from my grandfather this morning; and, as if he
felt relieved by having given them, he has since
been more tranquil, more serene, and almost
joyous. For my own part, I cannot believe that
so clear and strong a mind can be dwelling in a
body which is so near dissolution. The danger
has been set before my eyes, but it still seems
far distant. May God confirm my favourable
anticipations!

January 7.—Darkness has a more depressing
effect on sick persons than it has on people in
health; although it is said to be injurious even
to the robustest health. Light was made for
man, and man for the light. We have contrived
this morning a mode of economising our oil,
without remaining completely in the dark. We
have made a night-light with a thin slice of cork,
through which we have thrust a very small wick.
This feeble light suffices for my work, and it
cheers my grandfather a little. We will make
use of this for the future, and only rarely light
the large lamp; for, upon trial, I find that I can
manage to write with this.

January 10.—It was the will of God! . . . I
am left alone with Him, far away from all the
rest of the world. It happened the day before
yesterday. It is impossible to go on and write
the full account of his death. The paper is
soaking wet with my tears.

January 12.—Yes, this is really the twelfth
of January; two days have elapsed since I wrote
the preceding lines. . . My reason is returning;
it shall get the upper hand, if it please God.
Unless I felt that the Lord was with me and around
me, I too should die, and that of fright alone.

January 13 and 14.—On the seventh, I went
to bed full of hope; my grandfather appeared
to be better than usual; but before I had fallen
asleep, I heard him groan, and I jumped up
instantly. Without waiting for him to ask me to
go and help him, I dressed myself, lighted the
lamp, which stood ready, and asked him how he
felt.

"I feel faint," he said; "it will be like the
other day; or perhaps——!" He checked
himself.

"Dear grandfather, will you take a spoonful
of wine?"

"No, my child; only moisten my temples
and rub my hands with vinegar—and—get the
Bible. Read me that passage, you know which,
where I have placed a slip of paper."

I obeyed. When I had finished it, he
interrupted me, made me come near him, took my
hands in his, and uttered a long prayer. He
pronounced the words slowly, in a feeble voice,
and at considerable intervals. He then made
me recite some portions of Scripture which I
knew by heart; at times, he called to mind
passages of the Bible and words of the Saviour,
which he repeated with a fervour and resignation
that melted me to tears.

I will add one trifling circumstance, which,
however, affected me greatly. Blanchette,
surprised, perhaps, at seeing a light shining at an
unusual hour, set up a continued bleating.

"Poor Blanchette!" said the dying man; "I
must caress her just once more. Let her loose,
my boy, and lead her to my bedside."

I did as he desired; and Blanchette, in her
familiar way, put her two fore-feet on the edge
of the bedstead, begging for some little tit-bit
to be given to her. We had accustomed her to
take from the hand, in this way, a grain or two
of salt. I thought I should be doing what was
agreeable to my patient, if I laid a little salt in
his hand. Blanchette took it instantly, and
licked his hand afterwards.

"Always be a good nurse! Give plenty of
milk!" he said, passing his arm round her neck
with an effort. He then, turned aside his head.
I led Blanchette away and fastened her to the
manger.

After that he uttered scarcely any connected
words; only, he made me understand that he
wished me to remain close to him, with my hand
in his. I felt a slight pressure at intervals; and,
as his eyes spoke to me at the same time, I
comprehended that he was collecting his last strength
to express his affection, and that I should be
uppermost in his thoughts until life should
cease.

I said a few affectionate words; at which his
looks brightened up, and I saw that it would be