O, aid me with thy help, OMNIPOTENCE DIVINE."

It is more affecting than we care to say to read her mother's and
Isabella Keith's letters written immediately after her death. Old and
withered, tattered and pale, they are now: but when you read them, how
quick, how throbbing with life and love! how rich in that language of
affection which only women and Shakespeare and Luther can use,--that
power of detaining the soul over the beloved object and its loss!

"K. PHILIP (_to_ CONSTANCE).

You are as fond of grief as of your child.

CONSTANCE.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
Then I have reason to be fond of grief."

What variations cannot love play on this one string!

In her first letter to Miss Keith, Mrs. Fleming says of her dead Maidie:
"Never did I behold so beautiful an object. It resembled the finest
waxwork. There was in the countenance an expression of sweetness and
serenity which seemed to indicate that the pure spirit had anticipated
the joys of heaven ere it quitted the mortal frame. To tell you what
your Maidie said of you would fill volumes; for you was the constant