Poor dear Watson was dead when the paragraph in the paper appeared. He
was buried in his own church yesterday. Last Sunday three weeks (the day
before he went abroad) he dined with us, and was quite well and happy.
She has come home, is at Rockingham with the children, and does not
weakly desert his grave, but sets up her rest by it from the first. He
had been wandering in his mind a little before his death, but recovered
consciousness, and fell asleep (she says) quite gently and peacefully in
her arms.