I did not say anything.Her hand was on the table and I put my hand on it gently.It was wonderful news.I remembered when my own wife，Maria，had told me this，and how this house had been full of the laughter of little voices，and the noise of running feet.Charlotte and I sat like that for a long time， remembering.It did not happen.At Christmas she fell ill， and in the New Year she was worse.She felt sick all the time because of the baby， and she ate nothing.She lay in bed all day，hot and coughing.Arthur Nicholls cared for her wonderfully--I think he often stayed awake all night.But it did not help.On 31st March 1855 the last of my six children died.It was early in the morning.Arthur Nicholls was sitting by her bed，and I was standing by the door.She was asleep with her hand in his.Her face was very thin and pale.She opened her eyes and saw him.Then she coughed，and I saw fear in her face.'Oh God，'she whispered.
