I have referred to the wide range of Margaret’s friendships.  Even at this period this variety was very apparent.  She was the centre of a group very different from each other, and whose only affinity consisted in their all being polarized by the strong attraction of her mind,—­all drawn toward herself.  Some of her friends were young, gay and beautiful; some old, sick or studious.  Some were children of the world, others pale scholars.  Some were witty, others slightly dull.  But all, in order to be Margaret’s friends, must be capable of seeking something,—­capable of some aspiration for the better.  And how did she glorify life to all! all that was tame and common vanishing away in the picturesque light thrown over the most familiar things by her rapid fancy, her brilliant wit, her sharp insight, her creative imagination, by the inexhaustible resources of her knowledge, and the copious rhetoric which found words and images always apt and always ready.  Even then she displayed almost the same marvellous gift of conversation which afterwards dazzled all who knew her,—­with more perhaps of freedom, since she floated on the flood of our warm sympathies.  Those who know Margaret only by her published writings know her least; her notes and letters contain more of her mind; but it was only in conversation that she was perfectly free and at home.

Margaret’s constancy in friendship caused her to demand it in others, and thus she was sometimes exacting.  But the pure Truth of her character caused her to express all such feelings with that freedom and simplicity that they became only as slight clouds on a serene sky, giving it a tenderer beauty, and casting picturesque shades over the landscape below.  From her letters to different friends I select a few examples of these feelings.

’The world turns round and round, and you too must needs be negligent and capricious.  You have not answered my note; you have not given me what I asked.  You do not come here.  Do not you act so,—­it is the drop too much.  The world seems not only turning but tottering, when my kind friend plays such a part.’

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’You need not have delayed your answer so long; why not at once answer the question I asked?  Faith is not natural to me; for the love I feel to others is not in the idleness of poverty, nor can I persist in believing the best; merely to save myself pain, or keep a leaning place for the weary heart.  But I should believe you, because I have seen that your feelings are strong and constant; they have never disappointed me, when closely scanned.’

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