I do wish I could gather you both in my
little nest."
She was like her father, Dr. Lyman Beecher, in many things. The
scorching fire of the brain seemed to devour its essence, and she
endured, as he did before her, some years of existence when the motive
power almost ceased to act. She became "like a little child,"
wandering about, pleased with flowers, fresh air, the sound of a
piano, or a voice singing hymns, but the busy, inspiring spirit was
asleep.
Gradually she faded away, shrouded in this strange mystery, hovered
over by the untiring affection of her children, sweet and tender in
her decadence, but "absent."
At the moment when this brief memorial was receiving a final revision
before going to the press, the news reached me of the unloosing of the
last threads of consciousness which bound Mrs. Stowe to this world.
The sweetness and patience of her waiting years can only be perfectly
told by the daughters who hung over her. She knew her condition, but
there was never a word of complaint, and so long as her husband lived
she performed the office of nurse and attendant upon his lightest
wishes as if she felt herself strong. Her near friends were sometimes
invited to dine or to have supper with her at that period, but they
could see even then how prostrated she became after the slightest
mental effort. It was upon occasion of such a visit that she told me,
with a twinkle of the eye, that "Mr. Stowe was sometimes inclined to
be a little fretful during the long period of his illness, and said to
her one day that he believed the Lord had forgotten him.
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