pened to him; he only knows thus much, that when he came a little to himself, he found that he was not in the arms of his Mimili, but in a bed at Freiburg, in Breisgau, belonging to a humane man, in whose care the miller had left him, because he could not be conveyed farther without the greatest danger. The Freiburger and his wife and family treated the stranger like the compassionate Samaritan. William, after a long struggle, recovered, and proceeded to Thun; whence he crossed the lake, and hastened to the abode of his faithful Mimili.
“The same day that our good neighbour last wrote to you,” continued she, “I lay in tranquil expectation of my release from this world. It grew dusk—the gloom of the grave encompassed me—I had taken leave of my father, and closed my eyes—the chill of death pervaded my whole frame—my soul longed to wing its flight to happier regions, and in a sort of trance I beheld the dawn of everlasting glory, when I heard his voice. He called me softly by my name. I imagined that I had already quitted a world which had no charms for me, and that an angel had brought my William to meet and welcome me at the gates of celestial bliss.
“But again he pronounced my name; his voice was of earthly tone, and I felt the soft kisses of his warm lips on my cold hand. My
