say this sadly but frankly—­seem to me to leave the world worse, in essential respects, than they entered it.  There is generally something ingenuous, responsive, eager, sweet, hopeful about a child—­but though I admit that one does encounter beautiful natures that seem to flower very generously in the light of experience, yet most people grow dull, dreary, conventional, grasping, commonplace—­they grow to think rather contemptuously of emotion and generosity—­they think it weak to be amiable, unselfish, kind.  They become fond of comfort and position and respect and money.  They think such things the serious concerns of life, and sentiment a kind of relaxation.  But with Willett it was the precise reverse.  He claimed nothing for himself, he never profited at the expense of another; he was utterly humble, gentle, unpretentious, kind, sincere.  An hour ago I should have called him “poor fellow,” and wished that he had had a more robust kind of fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in my heart to wish him any such qualities.  His life appears to me utterly beautiful and fragrant.  He never incurred any taint of grossness from prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and in the light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one thing worth achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and rich with possibilities of blessing and glory.  He would hardly have called himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he could not have attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful certainty; but the only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about him, echoing sweetly and softly through the ages, are the words in which Christ described the tender spirits of those who were nearest to the Father’s heart, and to whom it is given to see God.

July 28, 1889.

Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely.  I have given up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for plots or situations.  I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects beside me, and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely indifferent to the whole thing.  Meanwhile the flood of letters about my book, invitations from editors, offers from publishers, continues to flow.  I reply to these benignantly and courteously, but undertake nothing, promise nothing.  I seem to have recovered my balance.  I think no more about my bodily complaints, and my nerves no longer sting and thrill.  The day is hardly long enough for all I have to do.  It may be that when the novelty of the experiment in education wears off, I shall begin to hanker after authorship again.  Alec will have to go to school in a year or two, I suppose; but it shall be a day-school at first, if I can find one.  As to the question of a public school, I am much exercised.  Of course there are nightmare terrors about tone and morals; but I am not really very anxious about the boy, because he is sensible and independent, and has no lack of moral courage.  The vigorous barrack-life is good