My Father was in the habit of saying， in later years， that no small element in his wedded happiness had been the fact that my Mother and he were of one mind in the interpretation of Sacred Prophecy. Looking back， it appears to me that this unusual mental exercise was almost their only relaxation， and that in their economy it took the place which is taken， in profaner families， by cards or the piano. It was a distraction； it took them completely out of themselves. During those melancholy weeks at Pimlico， I read aloud another work of the same nature as those of Habershon and Jukes， the Horae Apocalyptícae of a Mr Elliott.
This was written， I think， in a less disagreeable style， and certainly it was less opaquely obscure to me. My recollection distinctly is that when my Mother could endure nothing else， the arguments of this book took her thoughts away from her pain and lifted her spirits. Elliott saw 'the queenly arrogance of Popery' everywhere， and believed that the very last days of Babylon the Great were came. Lest I say what may be thought extravagant， let me quote what my Father wrote in his diary at the time of my Mother's death. He said that the thought that Rome was doomed (as seemed not impossible in 1857) so affected my Mother that it 'irradiated' her dying hours with an assurance that was like 'the light of the Morning Star， the harbinger of the rising sun'.
After our return to Islington， there was a complete change in my relation to my Mother. At Pimlico， I had been all-important， her only companion， her friend， her confidant. But now that she was at home again， people and things combined to separate me from her. Now， and for the first time in my life， I no longer slept in her room， no longer sank to sleep under her kiss， no longer saw her mild eyes smile on me with the earliest sunshine. Twice a day， after breakfast and before I went to rest， I was brought to her bedside； but we were never alone； other people， sometimes strange people， were there. We had no cosy talk； often she was too weak to do more than pat my hand； her loud and almost constant cough terrified and harassed me. I felt， as I stood， awkwardly and shyly， by her high bed， that I had shrunken into a very small and insignificant figure， that she was floating out of my reach， that all things， but I knew not what nor how， were corning to an end. She herself was not herself； her head， that used to be held so erect， now rolled or sank upon the pillow； the sparkle was all extinguished from those bright， dear eyes. Icould not understand it； I meditated long， long upon it all in my infantile darkness， in the garret， or in the little slip of a cold room where my bed was now placed； and a great， blind anger against I knew not what awakened in my soul.
The two retreats which I have mentioned were now all that were left to me. In the back-parlour someone from outside gave me occasional lessons of a desultory character. The breakfast-room was often haunted by visitors， unknown to me by face or name，--ladies， who used to pity me and even to pet me， until I became nimble in escaping from their caresses. Everything seemed to be unfixed， uncertain； it was like being on the platform of a railway-station waiting for a train. In all this time， the agitated， nervous presence of my Father， whose pale face was permanently drawn with anxiety， added to my perturbation， and Ibecame miserable， stupid-- as if I had lost my way in a cold fog.
Had I been older and more intelligent， of course， it might have been of him and not of myself that I should have been thinking.
As I now look back upon that tragic time， it is for him that my heart bleeds，--for them both， so singularly fitted as they were to support and cheer one another in an existence which their own innate and cultivated characteristics had made little hospitable to other sources of comfort. This is not to be dwelt on here. But what must be recorded was the extraordinary tranquillity， the serene and sensible resignation， with which at length my parents faced the awful hour. Language cannot utter what they suffered， but there was no rebellion， no repining； in their case even an atheist might admit that the overpowering miracle of grace was mightily efficient.
It seems almost cruel to the memory of their opinions that the only words which rise to my mind， the only ones which seem in the least degree adequate to describe the attitude of my parents， had fallen from the pen of one whom， in their want of imaginative sympathy， they had regarded as anathema. But John Henry Newman might have come from the contemplation of my Mother's death-bed when he wrote： 'All the trouble which the world inflicts upon us， and which flesh cannot but feel，--sorrow， pain， care， bereavement，--these avail not to disturb the tranquillity and the intensity with which faith gazes at the Divine Majesty.' It was 'tranquillity'， it was not the rapture of the mystic. Almost in the last hour of her life， urged to confess her 'joy' in the Lord， my Mother， rigidly honest， meticulous in self-analysis， as ever， replied： 'I have peace， but not joy. It would not do to go into eternity with a lie in my mouth.'
When the very end approached， and her mind was growing clouded， she gathered her strength together to say to my Father， 'I shall walk with Him in white. Won't you take your lamb and walk with me？' Confused with sorrow and alarm， my Father failed to understand her meaning. She became agitated， and she repeated two or three times： 'Take our lamb， and walk with me！' Then my Father comprehended， and pressed me forward； her hand fell softly upon mine and she seemed content. Thus was my dedication， that had begun in my cradle， sealed with the most solemn， the most poignant and irresistible insistence， at the death-bed of the holiest and purest of women. But what a weight， intolerable as the burden of Atlas， to lay on the shoulders of a little fragile child！
