s of distinction who, chancing to be in
town, were fortunate enough to have letters of introduction to her. I
see her slight figure moving from group to group, and the low English
voice and sweet smile with which she encouraged her visitors to speak
of themselves, and, if they were foreigners, of their missions to this
country. A characteristic act of hers was to carry around a little
silver tray on which there might be several glasses of a dainty punch,
the base of which was a light, non-alcoholic wine. This she offered to
friends whom she desired particularly to honor, and the act had all
the significance of the Russian custom of breaking bread and eating
salt with the host. These Sunday evenings at home, which were a
feature of the society in which she moved, were continued until a
short time before her death, or until she was incapacitated by
illness.

My friend had none of the usual failings of the traditionary
"emancipated woman"; she would sit down to her basket on an afternoon
and take up a bit of household sewing with the same spirit and
aptitude that had guided her in the forenoon in the writing of an
editorial article or the preparation of a paper to be read before a
club.

I recall with especial joy the long walks we used to take together.
After a day of wearisome work, it was one of her great delights to
leave the piled-up desk and find herself in the street, her arm linked
in mine. At such times much of her talk was ravishing speculation upon
things seen and unseen. It was as if, released for the moment from
the pressure of work, her mind sprang into a world removed from the
practical and immediate, to revel in contemplation of the divine. Yet
she was no visionary, and the world of sight held her cheerful
allegiance. Hers was never "the dyer's hand subdued to what it works
in," and this is the more remarkable since she never relinquished
work, even for our beloved walks, without a mild protest at laying
aside her pen. One afternoon I called, intending to take her out for
one of our "play-hours," but I failed to find her in her apartment.
Next morning the post brought me this note:

"MY DEAR FRIEND:

"I was so glad to get your card, and so sorry to miss you.
It was just that hour out-of-doors with you that I was
longing for. I have been so long away, and since my return
have been so busy with much detail of correspondence that in
quantity is always more or less depressing