r
that she could not live in it. "I pity people that have any _sham_ about
them when I am by," she said one day. "I am dreadfully afraid of young
ladies," she said at another time. She could not adapt herself to the
artificial and conventional. Yet with young ladies who loved what she
loved she was peculiarly free and playful and _forth-giving_, and such
were among her dearest and most lovingly admiring friends.

When we met, there were no preliminaries; she plunged at once into the
subject which was interesting her, the book, the person, the case of
sickness or trouble, the plan, the last shopping, the game, the garment,
the new preparation for the table--in a way peculiarly her own. One
could never be with her many minutes without hearing some bright fancy,
some quick stroke of repartee, some ludicrous way of putting a thing.
But whether she told of the grumbler who could find nothing to complain
of in heaven except that "his halo didn't fit," or said in her quick
way, when the plainness of a lady's dress was commended, "Why, I
didn't suppose that anybody could go _to heaven_ now-a-days without an
overskirt," or wrote her sparkling impromptu rhymes for our children's
games, her mirth was all in harmony with her earnest life. Her quick
perceptions, her droll comparisons, her readiness of expression, united
with her rare and tender sympathies, made her the most fascinating of
companions to both young and old. Our little Saturday tear, with our
children, while our husbands were at Chi Alpha, were rare times. My
children enjoyed "Aunt Lizzy" almost as much as I did. She was usually
in her best mood at these times. When you and Henry came in, on your
return from Chi Alpha, you looked in upon, or, rather, you completed a
happier circle than this impoverished earth can ever show us again.

Her acquisitions were so rapid, and she made so little show of them,
that one might have doubted their thoroughness, who had no occasion to
test them. Her beautiful translation of Griselda was a surprise to many.
I remember her eager enthusiasm while translating it. The writing of
her books was almost an inspiration, so rapid, without copying, almost
without alteration, running on in her clear, pure style, with here and
there a radiant sparkle above the full depths.

It sometimes seemed as if she were interested only in those whom
she knew she could benefit. If so, it was from her ever-present
consciousness of a consecrated life. She con