And I saw a figure sunk in his chair like La Harpe, in figured silk robe de chambre and night-cap; death in his paled, sunk, shrunk face; a gleam of affectionate pleasure lighted it up for an instant, and straight it sunk again. He asked most kindly for my two sisters—"tell them I am glad they are happy."
The half-finished picture of his second son was in the corner, beside his arm-chair, as if to cheer his eyes.
"By an Irish artist," he politely said to me, "of great talent."
When I rallied him at parting on his low spirits, and said, "How much younger you are than I am!"
"No, no; not in mind, not in the powers of life. GOD bless you; good-bye."
I told him I would only say au revoir, and that never came; it was only the next day but one after this that Fanny read to me his death in the paper. It was dreadfully sudden to us; what must it have been to Mrs. Hope? I am sure she had no idea of its coming so soon. I forgot to say that as I got up to go away, I told him laughing, that he was only ill of a plethora of happiness, that he had everything this world could give, and only wanted a little adversity.
"Yes," said he, "I am happy, blessed with such a wife and such a son!"
He looked with most touching gratitude up to her, and she drew back without speaking.
Oh! I cannot tell you the impression the whole scene left on my mind.
March 14.