ame time to
the fact which does not emerge in the Diary, namely, the extraordinary
gallantry and patience of his conduct and demeanour. He struggled
visibly and pathetically, from hour to hour, against his depression. He
never complained; he never showed, at least in my presence, the
smallest touch of irritability. Indeed to myself, who had known him as
the most equable and good-humoured of men, he seemed to support the
trial with a courage little short of heroism. The trial was a sore one,
because it deprived him both of motive and occupation. But he made the
best of it; he read, he took long walks, and he threw himself with
great eagerness into the education of his children--a task for which he
was peculiarly qualified. Then a series of calamities fell upon him: he
lost his boy, a child of wonderful ability and sweetness; he lost his
fortune, or the greater part of it. The latter calamity he bore with
perfect imperturbability--they let their house and moved into
Gloucestershire. Here a certain measure of happiness seemed to return
to him. He made a new friend, as the Diary relates, in the person of
the Squire of the village, a man who, though an invalid, had a strong
and almost mystical hold upon life. Here he began to interest himself
in the people of the place, and tried all sorts of education and social
experiments. But his wife fell ill, and died very suddenly; and, not
long after, his daughter died too. He was for a time almost wholly
broken down. I went abroad with him at his request for a few weeks, but
I was myself obliged to return to England to my professional duties. I
can only say that I did not expect ever to see him again. He was like a
man, the spring of whose life was broken; but at the same time he bore
himself with a patience and a gentleness that fairly astonished me. We
were together day by day and hour by hour. He made no complaint, and he
used to force himself, with what sad effort was only too plain, to
converse on all sorts of topics. Some time after he drifted back to
England; but at first he appeared to be in a very listless and dejected
state. Then there arrived, almost suddenly, it seemed to me, a change.
He had made the sacrifice; he had accepted the situation. There came to
him a serenity which was only like his old serenity from the fact that
it seemed entirely unaffected; but it was based, I felt, on a very
different view of life. He was now content to wait and to believe. It
was at this