“Yesterday, Lord Napier was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral.  After the war in Africa Lord Napier was here for a few days, at the invitation of Mrs. Gladstone and myself, and we walked as we are walking now.  He told me this story.  I cannot remember his exact words.  He said that just when the troops were about to leave Africa there was a soldier with a broken leg.  He was too sick to take along, but to leave him behind seemed barbaric.  Lord Napier ordered him to be carried, but he soon became too ill to go any further.  Lord Napier went to a native woman well known in that country for her kindness, and asked her to take care of the soldier.  To ensure his care she was offered a good sum of money.  I remember her reply as Lord Napier repeated it to me.  ’No, I will not take care of this wounded soldier for the money you offer me,’ she said; ’I have no need of the money.  My father and mother have a comfortable tent, and I have a good tent; why should I take the money?  If you will leave him here I will take care of him for the sake of the love of God.’”

Gladstone was in the thick of political scrimmage over Home Rule, and he talked about it with me.

“It seems the dispensation of God that I should be in the battle,” he said; “but it is not to my taste.  I never had any option in the matter.  I dislike contests, but I could not decline this controversy without disgrace.  When Ireland showed herself ready to adopt a righteous constitution, and do her full duty, I hesitated not an hour.”

Two nights before, at a speech in Chester, Mr. Gladstone had declared that the increase of the American navy would necessitate the increase of the British navy.  I rallied him about this statement, and he said, “Oh!  Americans like to hear the plain truth.  The fact is, the tie between the two nations is growing closer every year.”

It was a bitter cold day and yet Mr. Gladstone wore only a very light cape, reaching scarcely to his knees.

“I need nothing more on me,” he said; “I must have my legs free.”

After luncheon he took me into his library, a wonderful place, a treasure-house in itself, a bookman’s palace.  The books had been arranged and catalogued according to a system of his own invention.  He showed many presents of American books and pictures sent to him.

“Outside of America there is no one who is bound to love it more than I do,” he said, “you see, I am almost surrounded by the evidences of American kindnesses.”  He gave me some books and pamphlets about himself, and his own Greek translation of “Jesus, Lover of my Soul.”  Mrs. Gladstone had been obliged to leave before we returned from our walk.  Mr. Gladstone took me into a room, however, and showed me a beautiful sculptured portrait of her, made when she was twenty-two.

“She is only two years younger than I am, but in complete health and vigour,” he said proudly.

He came out upon the steps to bid me good-bye.  Bareheaded, his white hair flowing in the wind, he stood in the cold and I begged him to go in.  I expressed a wish that he might come to America.