I have made your father
promise to let you grow up without any knowledge or reminder
of me. It was difficult, but at last--he promised. Yet there
must come a time when it will hurt you to think of your
mother. When it does--listen, my darling. Your father knows
that I loved him always! He knows--and he has forgiven. He
knows too what I did--and how--so does Sir James. There is no
place, no pardon for me on earth--but you may still love me,
Diana--still love me--and pray for me. Oh, my little
one!--they brought you in to kiss me a little while ago--and
you looked at me with your blue deep eyes--and then you
kissed me--so softly--a little strangely--with your cool
lips--and now I have made the nurse lift me up that I may
write. A few days--perhaps even a few hours--will bring me
rest. I long for it. And yet it is sweet to be with your
father, and to hear your little feet on the stairs. But most
sweet, perhaps, because it must end so soon. Death makes
these days possible, and for that I bless and welcome death.
I seem to be slipping away on the great stream--so
gently--tired--only your father's hand.
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