Sat down,
and, though seemingly able to think with only the lower part
of my head, meditated literary plans, with full hope that, if
I could command leisure, I might do something good. It seemed
as if I should never reach home, as I was obliged to sit down
incessantly.
'For nine long days and nights, without intermission, all was
agony,--fever and dreadful pain in my head. Mother tended me
like an angel all that time, scarcely ever leaving me, night
or day. My father, too, habitually so sparing in tokens of
affection, was led by his anxiety to express what he felt
towards me in stronger terms than he had ever used in the
whole course of my life. He thought I might not recover,
and one morning, coming into my room, after a few moments'
conversation, he said: "My dear, I have been thinking of
you in the night, and I cannot remember that you have any
_faults_. You have defects, of course, as all mortals have,
but I do not know that you have a single fault." These
words,--so strange from him, who had scarce ever in my
presence praised me, and who, as I knew, abstained from praise
as hurtful to his children,--affected me to tears at the
time, although I could not foresee how dear and consolatory
this extravagant expression of regard would very soon become.
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