"Is
that all?" said he. "We can soon put that right." And he gave me,
unasked, as much as I needed.
While we were struggling with our other difficulties, my wife was taken
ill. The house in 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.
Pages:
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330