w. Sir William repeated his
request to have the wound dressed. Dr Hume consented, and they went
away to prepare something to wash it with; they remained away half an
hour. I sat down by my husband and took his hand; he said he wished I
would not look so unhappy. I wept; and he spoke to me with so much
affection. He repeated every endearing expression. He bade me kiss
him. He called me his dear wife. The surgeons returned. My husband
turned on one side with great difficulty; it seemed to give much pain.

After I had brought everything the surgeons wanted, I went into
another room. I could not bear to see him suffering. Mr Powell saw a
change in his countenance; he looked out, and desired Emma to call me,
to tell me instantly Sir William wanted me. I hastened to him,
reproaching myself for having been absent a moment. I stood near my
husband, and he looked up at me and said, "Magdalene, my love, the
spirits." I stooped down close to him and held the bottle of lavender
to him: I also sprinkled some near him. He looked pleased. He gave a
little gulp, as if something was in his throat. The doctor said, "Ah,
poor De Lancey! He is gone." I pressed my lips to his, and left the
room.

I went upstairs, where I remained, unconscious of what was passing,
till Emma came to me and said the carriage was ready, and General
Dundas advised me to go that evening to Brussels, but I need not hurry
myself. I asked her if the room below was empty. She assured me it
was; and I went down and remained some time beside the body. There was
such perfect peace and placid calm sweetness in his countenance, that
I envied him not a little. He was released: I was left to suffer. I
then thought I should not suffer long. As I bent over him I felt as if
violent grief would disturb his tranquil rest.

These moments that I passed by his lifeless body were awful, and
instructive. Their impression will influence my whole life.

I left Waterloo with feelings so different from those I had on going
to it. Then all was anxious terror that I would not be there in time
to see one look, or to hear one word. Now there was nothing
imaginary--all was real misery. There now remained not even a chance
of happiness, but what depended on the retrospect of better days and
duties fulfilled.

As I drove rapidly along the same road, I could not but recall the
irritated state I had been in when I had been there before; and the
fervent and sincere resolutions I then made, t