“You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so did your brother. Ologies of all kinds from morning to night. If there is any Ology left, of any description, that has not been worn to rags in this house, all I can say is, I hope I shall never hear its name.”

“I can hear you, mother, when you have strength to go on.” This, to keep her from floating away.

“But there is something⁠—not an Ology at all⁠—that your father has missed, or forgotten, Louisa. I don’t know what it is. I have often sat with Sissy near me, and thought about it. I shall never get its name now. But your father may. It makes me restless. I want to write to him, to find out for God’s sake, what it is. Give me a pen, give me a pen.”

Even the power of restlessness was gone, except from the poor head, which could just turn from side to side.