He has heard more of me! was in her mind.
Her husband sat looking at her with his old large grey glassy eyes.
You would have fancied him awaiting her death as the signal for his own release.

But she, poor mother, behind her weeping lids beheld her son's filial love of her wounded and bleeding.

When there was anything to be done for her, old Kirby was astir.

When it was nothing, either in physic or assistance, he was like a great corner of rock.

You may indeed imagine grief in the very rock that sees its flower fading to the withered shred.