He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
be taken.

One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;