about six weeks. Day by day, during that time, the health of my Idris

declined: her heart was broken; neither sleep nor appetite, the chosen

servants of health, waited on her wasted form. To watch her children hour

by hour, to sit by me, drinking deep the dear persuasion that I remained to

her, was all her pastime. Her vivacity, so long assumed, her affectionate

display of cheerfulness, her light-hearted tone and springy gait were gone.

I could not disguise to myself, nor could she conceal, her life-consuming

sorrow. Still change of scene, and reviving hopes might restore her; I

feared the plague only, and she was untouched by that.

I had left her this evening, reposing after the fatigues of her

preparations. Clara sat beside her, relating a story to the two boys. The

eyes of Idris were closed: but Clara perceived a sudden change in the

appearance of our eldest darling; his heavy lids veiled his eyes, an

unnatural colour burnt in his cheeks, his breath became short. Clara looked

at the mother; she slept, yet started at the pause the narrator made--

Fear of awakening and alarming her, caused Clara to go on at the eager call

of Evelyn, who was unaware of what was passing. Her eyes turned alternately

from Alfred to Idris; with trembling accents she continued her tale, till

she saw the child about to fall: starting forward she caught him, and her

cry roused Idris. She looked on her son. She saw death stealing across his

features; she laid him on a bed, she held drink to his parched lips.

Yet he might be saved. If I were there, he might be saved; perhaps it was

not the plague. Without a counsellor, what could she do? stay and behold

him die! Why at that moment was I away? "Look to him, Clara," she

439

The Last Man