DEATHS cli 



a preparation for his own. Already I find him writing in the 

 plural of ' these impending deaths ' ; already I find him in quest 

 of consolation. ' There is little pain in store for these wayfarers,' 

 he wrote, c and we have hope more than hope, trust.' 



On May 19, 1884, Mr. Austin was taken. He was seventy- Death of 

 eight years of age, suffered sharply with all his old firmness, Mrs. an 

 and died happy in the knowledge that he had left his wife well Austin. 

 cared for. This had always been a bosom concern ; for the 

 Barrens were long-lived and he believed that she would long 

 survive him. But their union had been so full and quiet that 

 Mrs. Austin languished under the separation. In their last 

 years, they would sit all evening in their own drawing-room 

 hand in hand : two old people who, for all their fundamental 

 differences, had yet grown together and become all the world 

 in each other's eyes and hearts ; and it was felt to be a kind 

 release, when eight months after, on January 14, 1885, Eliza 

 Barren followed Alfred Austin. ' I wish I could save you from 

 all pain,' wrote Fleeming six days later to his sorrowing wife, 

 ' I would if I could but my way is not God's way ; and of this 

 be assured, God's way is best.' 



In the end of the same month, Captain Jenkin caught cold Illness and 

 and was confined to bed. He was so unchanged in spirit that Jhifca * 

 at first there seemed no ground of fear; but his great age began tain, 

 to tell, and presently it was plain he had a summons. The 

 charm of his sailor's cheerfulness and ancient courtesy, as he lay 

 dying, is not to be described. There he lay, singing his old sea 

 songs ; watching the poultry from the window with a child's 

 delight; scribbling on the slate little messages to his wife, who 

 lay bed-ridden in another room ; glad to have Psalms read aloud 

 to him, if they were of a pious strain checking, with an ' I 

 don't think we need read that, my dear,' any that were gloomy 

 or bloody. Fleeming's wife coming to the house and asking 

 one of the nurses for news of Mrs. Jenkin, ' Madam, I do not 

 know,' said the nurse ; ' for I am really so carried away by the 

 Captain that I can think of nothing else.' One of the last 

 messages scribbled to his wife and sent her with a glass of the 

 champagne that had been ordered for himself, ran, in his most 



