The heart is a true prophet: the fears of Sophia were about being
realised; the days of her mother were drawing to a close. Sophia,
sad and terrified, was never absent from her bedside. Her heart, her
heart alone, sometimes wandered after the footsteps of another
beloved, but less unhappy being. Forgive that thought of love to the
maiden; call it not a sin. Sixteen! a soul so tender! the first love!
The maternal eye saw into the inmost heart of the daughter, and felt
no jealousy at those thoughts flying to her distant love. In those
moments she silenced her own wants, lest she should disturb her in
her reveries, and humbly prayed for the happiness of her child.
Sophia, on recollecting herself, would testify the greatest sorrow,
ask pardon of her dear invalid, and redouble her attention. Neither
day nor night was she away from the pillow of her dying mother. Her
strength supported her, as if by a miracle. No one divided with her
this pious office, except the Countess Galeazzi, the mysterious guest
of that house, and she came but seldom to the chamber of suffering.
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