was but the high polish of a naturally gentle and artistic spirit, a spirit whose gentleness sometimes veiled its strength.  I have often heard Dean Stanley harshly spoken of, I have heard his honesty roughly challenged, but never in my presence has he been attacked that I have not uttered my protest against the injustice done him, and thus striven to repay some small fraction of that great debt of gratitude which I shall owe to his memory as long as I live.

As the spring grew warmer, my mother rallied wonderfully, and we began to dare to hope.  At last it was decided to move her down to Norwood; she was wearying for change, and it was thought that the purer air of the country might aid the system to recover tone and strength.  The furniture was waiting for me to send for it, and it was soon, conveyed to Colby Road; it only furnished two rooms, but I could easily sleep on the floor, and I made the two rooms on the ground floor into bedroom and sitting-room for my dear invalid.  One little servant-maid was all our slender resources could afford, and a very charming one was found for me by Mrs. Scott.  Through the months of hard work and poor living that followed, Mary was the most thoughtful and most generous of comrades.  And, indeed, I have been very fortunate in my servants, always finding in them willingness to help, and freely-rendered, ungrudging kindness.

I have just said that I could only furnish two rooms, but on my next visit to complete all the arrangements for my mother’s reception, I found the bedroom that was to be mine neatly and prettily furnished.  The good fairy was Mrs. Scott, who, learning the “nakedness of the land” from Mary, had determined that I should not be as uncomfortable as I had expected.

It was the beginning of May, and the air was soft and bright and warm.  We hired an invalid carriage and drove slowly down to Norwood.  My mother seemed to enjoy the drive, and when we lifted her into the bright cosy room prepared for her, she was delighted with the change.  On the following morning the improvement was continued, but in the evening she was taken suddenly worse, and we lifted her into bed and telegraphed for the doctor.  But now the end had come; her strength completely failed, and she felt that death was upon her; but selfless to the last, her only fear was for me.  “I am leaving you alone,” she would sigh from time to time, and truly I felt, with an anguish I dared not realise, that when she died I should indeed be alone on earth.

For two days longer she was with me, and, miser with my last few hours, I never left her side for five minutes.  At last on the 10th of May the weakness passed into delirium, but even then the faithful eyes followed me about the room, until at length they closed for ever, and as the sun sank low in the heavens, the breath came slower and slower, till the silence of death came down upon us and she was gone.