from whom death had parted him a few months before.  Yet he could often be led away to other topics, and in talking of them could be betrayed into momentary cheerfulness of manner.  His long-enduring and all-pervading grief was not more a tribute to the virtues and graces of her whom he mourned than an evidence of the deeply affectionate nature which in other relations endeared him to so many whose friendship was a title to love and honor.

I have now the privilege of once more recurring to the narrative of Mr. Motley’s daughter, Lady Harcourt.

“The harassing work and mental distress of this time [after the recall from England], acting on an acutely nervous organization, began the process of undermining his constitution, of which we were so soon to see the results.  It was not the least courageous act of his life, that, smarting under a fresh wound, tired and unhappy, he set his face immediately towards the accomplishment of fresh literary labor.  After my sister’s marriage in January he went to the Hague to begin his researches in the archives for John of Barneveld.  The Queen of the Netherlands had made ready a house for us, and personally superintended every preparation for his reception.  We remained there until the spring, and then removed to a house more immediately in the town, a charming old-fashioned mansion, once lived in by John de Witt, where he had a large library and every domestic comfort during the year of his sojourn.  The incessant literary labor in an enervating climate with enfeebled health may have prepared the way for the first break in his constitution, which was to show itself soon after.  There were many compensations in the life about him.  He enjoyed the privilege of constant companionship with one of the warmest hearts and finest intellects which I have ever known in a woman,—­the ‘ame d’elite’ which has passed beyond this earth.  The gracious sentiment with which the Queen sought to express her sense of what Holland owed him would have been deeply felt even had her personal friendship been less dear to us all.  From the King, the society of the Hague, and the diplomatic circle we had many marks of kindness.  Once or twice I made short journeys with him for change of air to Amsterdam, to look for the portraits of John of Barneveld and his wife; to Bohemia, where, with the lingering hope of occupying himself with the Thirty Years’ War, he looked carefully at the scene of Wallenstein’s death near Prague, and later to Varzin in Pomerania for a week with Prince Bismarck, after the great events of the Franco-German war.  In the autumn of 1872 we moved to England, partly because it was evident that his health and my mother’s required a change; partly for private reasons to be near my sister and her children.  The day after our arrival at Bournemouth occurred the rupture of a vessel on the lungs, without any apparently sufficient cause.  He recovered enough to revise and complete his manuscript, and we thought him better, when