Read it through once

To William Harness she wrote, in August, telling him that she had, at last, received the Sacrament at Mr. Pearson’s hands, together with Sam and her friend, Mrs. C. Stephens. “I wish you had been here also,” she pathetically added. Later, in September, she wrote—“I wish you were sitting close to me at this moment, that we might talk over your plans ... Swallowfield churchyard, the plain tablet, and the walking funeral have only one objection—that my father and mother lie in Shinfield Church, and that there is room left above them for me. But I greatly dislike where the vault is—just where all the schoolboys kick their heels. After all, I leave that to you—I mean the whole affair of the funeral. It is very doubtful if I shall live till October. At present I am better ... and now put my feet upon _your_ chair. You will not like it the less for having contributed to my comfort. I am still as cheerful as ever, which surprises people much.” So she lingered, writing whenever possible to distant friends, keenly anxious to hear the latest literary news and delighting in the knowledge that a novel (_Philip Lancaster_) had just been dedicated to her.