"
It seemed to the poor Queen as though he were "preparing for another and
a greater journey" than they had ever taken together. His tenderness
towards her through all this sad fortnight, was very touching. It was not
calculated to loosen the detaining, clinging clasp of her arms; but it
must be very sweet for her to remember. After the weariness of watching,
the prostration of fever, he welcomed always the good-morning caress of
his "dear little wife." Through the gathering mists of unconsciousness,
through the phantom-shades of delirium, his love for her struggled forth,
in a tender word, a wistful look, a languid smile, a feeble stroking of
the cheek. It was "wondrous pitiful," but it was very beautiful. Even at
the last, when he knew no one else, he knew her; and when she bent over
him and whispered, "Tis your own little wife," he bowed his head and
kissed her.
After she knew that all hope must be given up, the Queen still was able
to sit calmly by his bedside, and not trouble with the sound of weeping
the peace of that loving, passing soul. Occasionally she felt that she
must leave the room and weep, or her suppressed grief would kill her. But
she counted the moments and stayed her soul with prayer, to go back to
her post.
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