-What will become of us? My mother does not know our state; she is so

ill, that I have hidden it from her.

Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must perish miserably as we

are. If I were to try to move my mother now, she would die on the road; and

if, when she gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to find out the

roads, and get on so many many miles to the sea, you would all be in

France, and the great ocean would be between us, which is so terrible even

to sailors. What would it be to me, a woman, who never saw it? We should be

imprisoned by it in this country, all, all alone, with no help; better die

where we are. I can hardly write--I cannot stop my tears--it is not for

myself; I could put my trust in God; and let the worst come, I think I

could bear it, if I were alone. But my mother, my sick, my dear, dear

mother, who never, since I was born, spoke a harsh word to me,

who has been patient in many sufferings; pity her, dear Lady,

she must die a miserable death if you do not pity her. People speak

carelessly of her, because she is old and infirm, as if we must not all, if

we are spared, become so; and then, when the young are old themselves, they

will think that they ought to be taken care of. It is very silly of me to

write in this way to you; but, when I hear her trying not to groan, and see

her look smiling on me to comfort me, when I know she is in pain; and when

I think that she does not know the worst, but she soon must; and then she

will not complain; but I shall sit guessing at all that she is dwelling

upon, of famine and misery--I feel as if my heart must break, and I do

not know what I say or do; my mother--mother for whom I have borne much,

God preserve you from this fate! Preserve her, Lady, and He will bless you;

462

The Last Man