Gladstone murmured, "Our Father." As Mrs.
Gladstone leaned over her husband, he turned his head and his lips moved
slightly. Though extremely distressed, Mrs. Gladstone bore up with
remarkable fortitude. But Mr. Gladstone rallied again, and Wednesday
morning he was still living. By his almost superhuman vitality he had
fought death away.
The morning was beautiful and clear and the sunshine came in at the open
window of Mr. Gladstone's room. The aged sufferer was hovering between
life and death, and only by the feeble beating of his pulse could it be
told he was alive. He was sleeping himself away into eternal day. Mrs.
Gladstone sat by the side of his bed, holding his hand, and never
leaving except for needed rest. At times he seemed to recognize for a
moment some of those with him. He surely knew his wife as she tenderly
kissed his hand.
It soon became known abroad that Mr. Gladstone was dying. In the House
of Commons it caused profound sorrow. Everything else was stopped while
members discussed how best to honor him, even by taking steps without,
precedent as that of adjourning, because the circumstances were
unprecedented. His former colleagues silently watched his last struggle
with the relentless foe, to whom, true to himself, he was yielding
slowly, inch by inch.
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