rom the north-west, and the
prognostic was fulfilled. It was formed of clouds of the deepest and
richest colours; within its curve lay a bare expanse of a wonderful
green tint, crossed by the snowy _silhouette_ of the Southern Alps.
A few hours afterwards the mountains were quite hidden by mist, and a
furious gale of hot wind was shaking the house as if it must carry it
off into the sky; it blew so continuously that the trees and shrubs
never seemed to rise for a moment against it.

These hot winds affect infants and children a good deal, and my baby is
not at all well. However, his doctor thinks the change to the station
will set him all right again, so we are hurrying off much sooner than
our kind friends here wish, and long before the little house in the
hills can possibly be made comfortable, though F---- is working very
hard to get things settled for us.

Letter IX: Death in our new home--New Zealand children.

Broomielaw, Malvern Hills, May 1866. I do not like to allow the first
Panama steamer to go without a line from me: this is the only letter I
shall attempt, and it will be but a short and sad one, for we are still
in the first bitterness of grief for the loss of our dear little baby.
After I last wrote to you he became very ill, but we hoped that his
malady was only caused by the unhealthiness of Christchurch during the
autumn, and that he would soon revive and get on well in this pure,
beautiful mountain air. We consequently hurried here as soon as ever we
could get into the house, and whilst the carpenters were still in it.
Indeed, there was only one bedroom ready for us when I arrived. The
poor little man rallied at first amazingly; the weather was exquisitely
bright and sunny, and yet bracing. Baby was to be kept in the open air
as much as possible, so F---- and I spent our days out on the downs near
the house, carrying our little treasure by turns: but all our care was
fruitless: he got another and more violent attack about a fortnight ago,
and after a few hours of suffering he was taken to the land where pain
is unknown. During the last twelve hours of his life, as I sat before
the fire with him on my lap, poor F----kneeling in a perfect agony of
grief by my side, my greatest comfort was in looking at that exquisite
photograph from Kehren's picture of the "Good Shepherd," which hangs
over my bedroom mantelpiece, and thinking that our sweet little lamb
would soon be folded in those Divine, all-