the atmosphere was so foreign to her that she could not live in it.  “I pity people that have any sham about them when I am by,” she said one day.  “I am dreadfully afraid of young ladies,” she said at another time.  She could not adapt herself to the artificial and conventional.  Yet with young ladies who loved what she loved she was peculiarly free and playful and forth-giving, and such were among her dearest and most lovingly admiring friends.

When we met, there were no preliminaries; she plunged at once into the subject which was interesting her, the book, the person, the case of sickness or trouble, the plan, the last shopping, the game, the garment, the new preparation for the table—­in a way peculiarly her own.  One could never be with her many minutes without hearing some bright fancy, some quick stroke of repartee, some ludicrous way of putting a thing.  But whether she told of the grumbler who could find nothing to complain of in heaven except that “his halo didn’t fit,” or said in her quick way, when the plainness of a lady’s dress was commended, “Why, I didn’t suppose that anybody could go to heaven now-a-days without an overskirt,” or wrote her sparkling impromptu rhymes for our children’s games, her mirth was all in harmony with her earnest life.  Her quick perceptions, her droll comparisons, her readiness of expression, united with her rare and tender sympathies, made her the most fascinating of companions to both young and old.  Our little Saturday tear, with our children, while our husbands were at Chi Alpha, were rare times.  My children enjoyed “Aunt Lizzy” almost as much as I did.  She was usually in her best mood at these times.  When you and Henry came in, on your return from Chi Alpha, you looked in upon, or, rather, you completed a happier circle than this impoverished earth can ever show us again.

Her acquisitions were so rapid, and she made so little show of them, that one might have doubted their thoroughness, who had no occasion to test them.  Her beautiful translation of Griselda was a surprise to many.  I remember her eager enthusiasm while translating it.  The writing of her books was almost an inspiration, so rapid, without copying, almost without alteration, running on in her clear, pure style, with here and there a radiant sparkle above the full depths.

It sometimes seemed as if she were interested only in those whom she knew she could benefit.  If so, it was from her ever-present consciousness of a consecrated life.  She constantly sought for ways of showing her love to Christ, especially to His sick and suffering and sorrowing ones.  Life with her was peculiarly intense and earnest; she looked upon it more as a discipline and a hard path, and yet no one had a quicker or more admiring eye for the flowers by the wayside.  I always thought that her great forte was the study of character.  She laid bare and dissected everybody, even her nearest friends and herself, to find what was in them; and what she found, reproduced in her books, was what gave them their peculiar charm of reality.  The growth of the religious life in the heart was the one most interesting subject to her.