Of her early sorrows, in the loss of two children and a beloved sister, who was domesticated with the family, there are probably no living witnesses.  It will never be forgotten, by those who saw it, how the late dreary train of afflictions was met.  For many years Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy was a melancholy charge.  Mrs. Wordsworth was wont to warn any rash enthusiasts for mountain-walking by the spectacle before them.  The adoring sister would never fail her brother; and she destroyed her health, and then her reason, by exhausting walks and wrong remedies for the consequences.  Forty miles in a day was not a singular feat of Dorothy’s.  During the long years of this devoted creature’s helplessness she was tended with admirable cheerfulness and good sense.  Thousands of lake tourists must remember the locked garden-gate when Miss Wordsworth was taking the air, and the garden-chair going round and round the terrace, with the emaciated little woman in it, who occasionally called out to strangers and amused them with her clever sayings.  She outlived the beloved Dora, Wordsworth’s only surviving daughter.

After the lingering illness of that daughter (Mrs. Quillinan), the mother encountered the dreariest portion, probably, of her life.  Her aged husband used to spend the long Winter evenings in grief and tears—­week after week, month after month.  Neither of them had eyes for reading.  He could not be comforted.  She, who carried as tender a maternal heart as ever beat, had to bear her own grief and his too.  She grew whiter and smaller, so as to be greatly changed in a few months; but this was the only expression of what she endured, and he did not discover it.  When he, too, left her, it was seen how disinterested had been her trouble.  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.