Still the bloom did not fade on the cheeks of my babes; and Clara sprung up in years and growth, unsullied by disease.  We had no reason to think the site of Windsor Castle peculiarly healthy, for many other families had expired beneath its roof; we lived therefore without any particular precaution; but we lived, it seemed, in safety.  If Idris became thin and pale, it was anxiety that occasioned the change; an anxiety I could in no way alleviate.  She never complained, but sleep and appetite fled from her, a slow fever preyed on her veins, her colour was hectic, and she often wept in secret; gloomy prognostications, care, and agonizing dread, ate up the principle of life within her.  I could not fail to perceive this change.  I often wished that I had permitted her to take her own course, and engage herself in such labours for the welfare of others as might have distracted her thoughts.  But it was too late now.  Besides that, with the nearly extinct race of man, all our toils grew near a conclusion, she was too weak; consumption, if so it might be called, or rather the over active life within her, which, as with Adrian, spent the vital oil in the early morning hours, deprived her limbs of strength.  At night, when she could leave me unperceived, she wandered through the house, or hung over the couches of her children; and in the day time would sink into a perturbed sleep, while her murmurs and starts betrayed the unquiet dreams that vexed her.  As this state of wretchedness became more confirmed, and, in spite of her endeavours at concealment more apparent, I strove, though vainly, to awaken in her courage and hope.  I could not wonder at the vehemence of her care; her very soul was tenderness; she trusted indeed that she should not outlive me if I became the prey of the vast calamity, and this thought sometimes relieved her.  We had for many years trod the highway of life hand in hand, and still thus linked, we might step within the shades of death; but her children, her lovely, playful, animated children—­beings sprung from her own dear side—­portions of her own being—­depositories of our loves—­even if we died, it would be comfort to know that they ran man’s accustomed course.  But it would not be so; young and blooming as they were, they would die, and from the hopes of maturity, from the proud name of attained manhood, they were cut off for ever.  Often with maternal affection she had figured their merits and talents exerted on life’s wide stage.  Alas for these latter days!  The world had grown old, and all its inmates partook of the decrepitude.  Why talk of infancy, manhood, and old age?  We all stood equal sharers of the last throes of time-worn nature.  Arrived at the same point of the world’s age—­there was no difference in us; the name of parent and child had lost their meaning; young boys and girls were level now with men.  This was all true; but it was not less agonizing to take the admonition home.