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
worlds of light.
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