e necessary
sanction, and started forth once more upon her way.

She stayed for a week at the British Embassy in Petrograd, where her
escort was obliged to leave her, so the rest of the journey was
undertaken alone.

We know nothing of how she got to Helsingfors, but I believe it was at
that place that she had to walk some considerable distance over a frozen
lake to reach the ship. She was hobbling along, leaning heavily on two
sticks, and just as she stumbled and almost fell, a young Englishman
came up and offered her his arm.

In an old diary, written years before in the Argentine, during a time
when Miss Macnaughtan was faced with what seemed overwhelming
difficulties, and when she had in her charge a very sick man, a kind
stranger came to the rescue. Her diary entry for that day is one of
heartfelt gratitude, and ends with the words: "God always sends
someone."

Certainly at Helsingfors some Protecting Power sent help in a big
extremity, and this young fellow--Mr. Seymour--devoted himself to her
for the rest of the journey in a marvellously unselfish manner. He could
not have been kinder to her if she had been his mother, and he actually
altered all his plans on arriving in England, and brought her to the
very door of her house in Norfolk Street. Without his help I sometimes
wonder whether my aunt would have succeeded in reaching home, and her
own gratitude to him knew no bounds. She used to say that in her
experience if people were in a difficulty and wanted help they ought to
go to a young man for it. She said that young men were the kindest
members of the human race.

[Page Heading: ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND]

It was on the 8th of May that Miss Macnaughtan reached home, and her
travels were over for good and all. One is only thankful that the last
weeks of her life were not spent in a foreign land but among her own
people, surrounded by all the care and comfort that love could supply.
Two of her sisters were with her always, and her house was thronged with
visitors, who had to wait their turn of a few minutes by her bedside,
which, alas! were all that her strength allowed.

She was nursed night and day by her devoted maid, Mary King, as she did
not wish to have a professional nurse; but no skill or care could save
her. The seeds of her illness had probably been sown some years before,
during a shooting trip in Kashmir, and the hard work and strain of the
first year of the war had weakened her powers of resistan