There is a sad and significant change in Mrs. Thorpe's dress. She wears
the widow's cap and weeds. It is nearly seven months since her husband
died, in the remote Welsh village to which he retired on leaving
London. With him, as with many other confirmed invalids, Nature drooped
to her final decay gradually and wearily; but his death was painless,
and his mental powers remained unimpaired to the end. One of the last
names that lingered lovingly on his lips--after he had bade his wife
farewell--was the name of his absent son.
Mrs. Thorpe sits close to Mrs. Blyth, and talks to her in low, gentle
tones. The kind black eyes of the painter's wife are brighter than they
have been for many a long year past, and the clear tones of her
voice--cheerful always--have a joyous sound in them now. Ever since the
first days of the Spring season, she has been gaining so greatly in
health and strength, that the "favorable turn" has taken place in her
malady, which was spoken of as "possible" by the doctors long ago, at
the time of her first sufferings. She has several times, for the last
fortnight, been moved from her couch for a few hours to a comfortable
seat near the window; and if the fine weather still continues, she is
to be taken out, in a day or two, for an airing in an invalid chair.
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