Her mental disquietude had produced the
physical relapse. She had been so confident of the truth of her
dreams, and that some power, she knew not what, but which she trusted
implicitly, would lead her to her husband, that her disappointment
was more than her strained nervous system could bear.
After a week's rest, although unable to rise, she called Babette to
her bedside. "I wish to send word to my aunt in England but I do not
feel able to sit up and write. I will dictate, you can write, and I
will sign it."
Then Babette wrote:
"MY DEAR AUNT ELLA: Confession, they say, is good for the soul. My
body is weak to-day and so Babette is writing my confession. I have
been to Sicily and all over the southern part of Italy, but no
success has come to me. If Quincy had been in one of those orange or
lemon groves he could not have lived there for so many years; the
work is too hard, and he was never used to manual labour. So, as soon
as I am able, I am coming home. I will never trouble you with any
more dreams. I believe, as you do, that they are products of
imagination. I am not sick, only tired out, and naturally, at first,
very much disheartened. I shall be with you very soon, never more to
leave you." ALICE.
"P. S. As soon as I am able to take a drive I am going to view the
attractions of this city--which Babette says is even more beautiful
than Paris.
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