"Doctor," said she, in a faint voice, "I am very poorly to-day, and I was still worse in the night. I was within that" (holding up her finger) "of death's door, and I find nothing now will relieve me. A little while ago, I could depend on something or other, when seized with these spasmodic attacks; but now everything fails. How am I to get better, when I can't have a moment's repose from morning till night? When I was ill on former occasions, I could amuse myself with my thoughts, with cutting out in paper;—why, I have a closet full of models, in paper, of rooms, and arches, and vaults, and pavilions, and buildings, with so many plans of alterations, you can't think. But now, if I want a pair of scissors, they can't be found; if I want a needle and thread, there is none forthcoming; and I am wearied to death about the smallest trifles."
She here began to cry and wring her hands, presenting a most melancholy picture of despair. When she had recovered a little, she went on: "To look upon me now, what a lesson against vanity! Look at this arm, all skin and bone, so thin, so thin, that you may see through it; and once, without exaggeration, so rounded, that you could not pinch the skin up. My neck was once so fair that a pearl necklace scarcely showed on it; and men—no fools, but sensible men—would say to me, 'God has given you a neck you
