He got very much weaker in the spring: he suffered from violent paroxysms of pain, depriving him of sight and power of speech, and wearing him out terribly.

On the 21st of April I was telegraphed for; he wished to see me.
I came in the evening; he was conscious, and seemed glad to see me, though he was very weak.

He said to me, "When I was at Cambridge, my windows overlooked a space of grass, very evenly green in the spring; but in a hot summer the lines of old foundations and buildings used to come out, burning the grass above them with the heat they retained; it is just the same," he added, "with things that I thought I had forgotten--they come out very truthfully now." He often spoke to me of his grief that he had never seen Edward's face after he left Tredennis to go to Cambridge, for he had been fearfully disfigured, cut and bruised by the accident, and he had no picture of him; "But perhaps it is because I was too fond of his face," he said.
He had several terrible spasms while I was with him, and the doctor said that if he had such another he could not last out the night.
Once, after waking from the prolonged and weary sleep of prostration which used to follow these collapses, he said to me, with a smile, "I saw him." Once he said, "I have just dreamed of a tall man, who came to me and said, 'You will be surprised when you meet Edward; he is delighting everyone there with his conversation; he is so much wiser; and he has grown so much handsomer," adding, with a smile, "though I still think that an impossibility." About six o'clock on the morning of the 24th he seemed very uneasy in his sleep.

On waking, he said, "I should like to receive the Sacrament." I confess that I thought that he was wandering; he had given up this religious observance for years.

He repeated it, adding, "I am not wandering; I know what I am saying." I went at once to the rectory.