been no time for warning. The sister could only break the suddenness of
the shock. A letter of Mrs. Browning's tells what was to be told.


Florence: April 30 ('49).

'. . . This is the first packet of letters, except one to Wimpole
Street, which I have written since my confinement. You will have
heard how our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my
husband's mother. An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart)
terminated in a fatal way--and she lay in the insensibility precursive
of the grave's when the letter written with such gladness by my poor
husband and announcing the birth of his child, reached her address. "It
would have made her heart bound," said her daughter to us. Poor tender
heart--the last throb was too near. The medical men would not allow
the news to be communicated. The next joy she felt was to be in heaven
itself. My husband has been in the deepest anguish, and indeed, except
for the courageous consideration of his sister who wrote two letters of
preparation, saying "She was not well" and she "was very ill" when in
fact all was over, I am frightened to think what the result would have
been to him. He has loved his mother as such passionate natures only
can love, and I never saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of
sorrow--never. Even now, the depression is great--and sometimes when I
leave him alone a little and return to the room, I find him in tears. I
do earnestly wish to change the scene and air--but where to go? England
looks terrible now. He says it would break his heart to see his mother's
roses over the wall and the place where she used to lay her scissors and
gloves--which I understand so thoroughly that I can't say "Let us go to
England." We must wait and see what his father and sister will choose to
do, or choose us to do--for of course a duty plainly seen would draw us