With that touching sentence the letters to my father, so far, at least,
as I possess them, come to an end. Alas! In the following year the
gentle wife and mother, worn out by India, died at a hill-station in the
Himalayas, and a few months later her husband, ill and heartbroken, sent
his motherless children home by long sea, and followed himself by the
overland route. Too late! He was taken ill in Egypt, struggled on to
Malta, and was put ashore at Gibraltar to die. From Cairo he had written
to the beloved mother who was waiting for him in that mountain home he
so longed to reach, that he hoped to be able to travel in a fortnight.

But do not trust to this.... Do not in fact expect me till you hear
that I am in London. I much fear that it may be long before I see
dear, dear Fox How. In London I must have advice, and I feel sure
I shall be ordered to the South of England till the hot weather is
well advanced. I must wait too in London for the darling children.
But once in London, I cannot but think my dearest mother will
manage to see me, and I have even had visions of your making one
of your spring tours, and going with me to Torquay or wherever I
may go.... Plans--plans--plans! They will keep.

And a few days later:

As I said before, do not expect me in England till you hear I am
there. Perhaps I was too eager to get home. Assuredly I have been
checked, and I feel as if there were much trouble between me and
home yet.... I see in the papers the death of dear Mrs.
Wordsworth....

Ever my beloved mother ...