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Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from

my own Elizabeth:

"My dearest Cousin,

"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of

dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your

account. You are forbidden to write-to hold a pen; yet one word

from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions.

For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this

line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from

undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his

encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a

journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform

it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your

sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never

guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and

affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval

writes that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that

you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.