Of Eugenie, still a few words remain to say.  About a year after Fenwick’s return she lost her father.  A little later Elsie Welby died.  To the end of her life she had never willingly accepted Eugenie’s service, and the memory of this, alack, is for Eugenie among the pains that endure.  What influence it may have had upon her later course can hardly be discussed here.  She continued to live in Westminster, and to be the friend of many.  One friend was tacitly accepted by all who loved her as possessing a special place and special privileges.  Encouraged and inspired by her, Arthur Welby outlived the cold and academic manner of his later youth, and in the joy of richer powers, and the rewards of an unstained and pure affection, he recovered much that life seemed once to have denied him.  Eugenie never married him.  In friendship, in ideas, in books, she found the pleasures of her way.  Part of her life she spent—­with yearning and humility—­among the poor.  But with them she never accomplished much.  She was timid in their presence, and often unwise; neither side understood the other.  Her real sphere lay in what a great Oxford preacher once enforced at St. Mary’s, as—­’our duty to our equals’—­the hardest of all.  Her influence, her mission, were with her own class; with the young girls just ‘out,’ who instinctively loved and clung to her; with the tired or troubled women of the world, who felt her presence as the passage of something pure and kindling which evoked their better selves; and with those men, in whom the intellectual life wages its difficult war with temperament and circumstance, for whom beauty and truth are realities, and yet—­great also is Diana of the Ephesians!  Thus in her soft, glancing, woman’s way, she stood with ’the helpers and friends of mankind.’  But she never knew it.  In her own opinion, few persons were so unprofitable as she; and but for her mystical belief, the years would have brought her melancholy.  They left her smile, however, undimmed.  For the mystic carries within a little flame of joy, very hard to quench.  The wind of Death itself does but stir and strengthen it.

[Illustration:  Robin Ghyll Cottage]