So don’t let there be any weeping for me, dear.  “Nothing is here for tears; nothing but well and fair.”  Always remember—­love is immortal.

I will not say that I could not have wished to live a little longer—­if things had been otherwise with both of us.  I should like to live to see your book published and your work finished (I know it will be some day), and baby grow up to be a good girl and a beautiful one too (for that’s something, isn’t it?); and I should like to live a little longer for another reason, a woman’s reason—­simply to be loved, and to be told that I am loved, for though a woman may know that, she likes to hear it said and is never tired of hearing it.

But things have gone against us, and it is almost sinfully ungrateful to regret anything when we have so many reasons for thankfulness.

And then about Girlie—­I used to think it would be terrible (for me, I mean) to die before she could be old enough to have any clear memory of her mother (such as I have of mine) to cherish and love—­only the cold, blank, unfilled by a face, which must be all that remains to most of those whose parents passed away while they were children.  But I am not afraid of that now, because I know that in the future, when our little girl asks about her mother, you will describe me to her as you saw and remember me—­and that will be so much sweeter and lovelier than I ever was, and it will be such a joy to think that my daughter sees me through her father’s eyes.

Besides, dearest, there is something still more thrilling—­the thought that Girlie may grow to be like me (like what you think me), and that in the time to come she may startle you with undescribable resemblances, in her voice or smile, or laugh, to her mother in heaven, so that some day, perhaps, years and years hence, when she is quite grown up, she may touch your arm and you may turn quickly to look at her, and lo! it will seem to you as if Mary herself (your Mary) were by your side.  Oh Death, where is thy sting?  Oh grave, where is thy victory?

Go on with your great work, dearest.  Don’t let it flag from any cold feeling that I am lost to you.  Whenever you think of me, say to yourself, “Mary is here; Love is stronger than death, many waters cannot quench it.”

Did you ever read Browning?  I have been doing so during the last few days, nurse (she is quite a thoughtful woman) having lent me his last volume.  When I read the last lines of what is said to have been his last poem I thought of you, dear: 

“No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time
Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
‘Strive and thrive!’ Cry ’Speed,—­fight on, fare ever
There as here!’”

I am going to get up again to-day, dear, having something to do that is just a little important—­to give you this manuscript book, in which I have been writing every day (or rather every night since you found me in London.)