which we lived was badly drained, or rather, the
drains being out of order, the offensive materials from other houses
lodged under the floor of our cellar kitchen, and sent forth, through
the floor, deadly effluvia. In this cellar kitchen we were obliged to
live. I was so much from home, and when at home was so much in the open
air, travelling to my appointments, and even when in the house, I spent
so much of my time in an upper room writing, that I took no harm. It was
otherwise with my poor wife. She had to be in this room almost all day
long, and often till late at night. The result was a deadly attack of
fever. She had felt unwell for some days, but had still gone on with her
work, and sought no medical advice or help. At length, as she was going
to bed one night, she fainted on the stairs. The stairs were very steep,
and the point at which she lost her consciousness was a most dangerous
one, and it seemed a miracle that she had not fallen back to the bottom
and been killed. But somehow she fell only a step or two. My eldest son
heard there was something the matter, and ran to see what it was. There
he found his poor, darling mother apparently dead, in the middle of the
steep and winding staircase. How he did it, I do not know, nor does he,
but though he was only a child of about thirteen years of age, he took
his mother, and by some mysterious means, carried her up the remainder
of the stairs, placed her on her bed, and then stood sorrowing and
trembling till she came to herself. She was ill thirteen weeks. For two
or three weeks she seemed on the point of death. On my return, late one
night, from one of my engagements, ten miles away in the country, I
found her strangely changed for the worse. She looked at me with a look
I can never forget. She thought she was dying. I thought so too. Her eye
said, Death; her whole expression said, Death. I burst into tears, and
gave what I thought was my last fond embrace. She had power to utter
just one sentence: it was an expression of tenderness and kindness, more
kind and tender than I deserved; and then fell back on her pillow, as if
giving up the ghost. But she lived through the night, and she lived
through the following day, helpless and speechless, yet still breathing.
She recovered, and remained with us to comfort and guide and bless us
for nearly thirty years, and then, alas, all too soon apparently, for
those who loved and all but adored her, she passed in peace to the