When his trouble had ceased, she, too, was relieved.
She followed his coffin to the sacred corner of Grasmere churchyard,
where lay now all those who had once made her home. She joined the
household guests on their return from the funeral, and made tea as
usual. And this was the disinterested spirit which carried her through
the last few years, till she had just reached the ninetieth. Even then
she had strength to combat disease for many days. Several times she
rallied and relapsed; and she was full of alacrity of mind and body as
long as exertion of any kind was possible. There were many eager to
render all duty and love--her two sons, nieces, and friends, and a whole
sympathizing neighborhood.
The question commonly asked by visitors to that corner of Grasmere
churchyard was: Where would _she_ be laid when the time came? The space
was so completely filled. The cluster of stones told of the little
children who died a long life-time ago; of the sisters--Sarah Hutchinson
and Dorothy Wordsworth; and of Mr. Quillinan, and his two wives, Dora
lying between her husband and father, and seeming to occupy her mother's
rightful place. And Hartley Coleridge lies next the family group; and
others press closely round. There is room, however. The large gray
stone, which bears the name of William Wordsworth, has ample space left
for another inscription; and the grave beneath has ample space also for
his faithful life-companion.
Not one is left now of the eminent persons who rendered that cluster of
valleys so eminent as it has been.
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