She was perfectly placid.

It did not seem to her that an overruling Providence could possibly treat her unkindly.

She was rather annoyed at times, but still never anxious, and utterly satisfied with herself to that extent that it precluded any doubt as to the final outcome of everything.
Maria continued to lose flesh.

A sentimental interest in herself and her delicacy possessed her.

She used to look at her face, which seemed to her more charming than ever, although so thin, in the glass, and reflect, with a pleasant acquiescence, on an early death.
She even spent some time in composing her own epitaph, and kept it carefully hidden away in a drawer of her dresser, under some linen.
Maria felt a gloomy pride when the doctor, who came frequently to see Ida, was asked to look at her; she felt still more triumphant when he expressed it as his opinion that she ought to have a change of air the moment school closed.