Winchester, Sunday.

My dearest Fanny,—Doubly dear to me now for her dear sake whom we have lost. She did love you most sincerely, and never shall I forget the proofs of love you gave her during her illness[326] in writing those kind, amusing letters at a time when I know your feelings would have dictated¹ so different a style. Take the only reward I can give you in the assurance that your benevolent² purpose was answered; you did contribute to her enjoyment³.

Even your last letter afforded pleasure. I merely cut the seal and gave it to her; she opened it and read it herself, afterwards she gave it to me to read, and then talked to me a little and not uncheerfully of its contents, but there was then a languor⁴ about her which prevented her taking the same interest in anything she had been used to do.

Since Tuesday evening, when her complaint returned, there was a visible change, she slept more and much more comfortably; indeed, during the last eight-and-forty hours she was more asleep than awake. Her looks altered and she fell away, but I perceived no material diminution⁵ of strength, and though I was then hopeless of a recovery, I had no suspicion how rapidly my loss was approaching.

I have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have been surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder⁶ of every pleasure, the soother⁷ of every sorrow; I had not a thought concealed⁸ from her, and it is as if I had lost a part of myself. I loved her only too well,—not better than she deserved, but I am conscious that my[327] affection for her made me sometimes unjust to and negligent⁹ of others; and I can acknowledge, more than as a general principle, the justice of the Hand which has struck this blow.

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