who most loved her said they had never seen her so ill."
The following morning, however, the poetess appeared to be better, and for a day or two was supposed to be recovering. She herself was of this belief, and those about her had such confidence in her vitality that the worst seemed to have been passed. "So little did Mrs. Browning realise her critical condition," says Mr. Story, "that until the last day she did not consider herself sufficiently indisposed to remain in bed, and then the precaution was accidental. So much encouraged did she feel with regard to herself that on this final evening an intimate female friend was admitted to her bedside, and found her in good spirits, ready at pleasantry and willing to converse on all the old loved subjects. Her ruling passion had prompted her to glance at the Athenæum and Nazione; and when this friend repeated the opinions she had heard expressed by an acquaintance of the new Italian Premier, Ricasoli, to the effect that his policy and Cavour's were identical, Mrs. Browning 'smiled like Italy,' and thankfully replied, 'I am glad of it; I thought so.' Even then her thoughts were not of self."
Little did this friend think, as she bade the poetess "good-bye," that it was indeed a farewell she was taking. Friends who called to inquire after her were sent away cheered with the assurance that she was better, and even her "own bright boy," says Mr. Story, as he bade his mother good night, was sent to bed consoled by her oft-repeated "I am better, dear, much better."
One only watched her breathing through the night, he who for fifteen years had ministered to her with all
