e afternoon
teas, evening receptions, dinner parties, private and public balls,
paper chases on horseback, polo, tennis parties, and picnics.
Sometimes a party of flower-wreathed natives might come dancing over
the lawn at Vailima, or a band of sailors from a man-of-war would be
seen gathered in an embarrassed knot at the front gate." She herself
cared little for these entertainments, and usually busied herself in
helping others with the preparations for them. Her mother-in-law
writes: "A fancy dress ball has been held in honor of the birthday of
the Prince of Wales. Fanny designed a costume for Mrs. Gurr (a pretty
Samoan girl) as Zenobia, Empress of the East. She wore a Greek dress,
made in part of cotton stuff with a gold pattern stamped on it; over
this a crimson chuddah was correctly draped, with a gold belt, many
beads, and an elaborate gold crown."

From the busy round of her many-sided activities she took time now and
then to do a little writing, though in truth she had little liking for
it nor any high regard for her own literary style, in which she
complained of a certain "dry nippedness" that she detested but could
not get rid of. It was only when she wanted some extra money for her
water-works at Vailima that she "took her pen in hand" and wrote a
story for Scribners.

All this sounds hurried and breathless, but in reality these
activities were spread out over far more time than appears in the
telling of them, and there were peaceful intervals of rest and
happiness in seeing Louis well and able for the first time to bear his
share in hospitality.

Always, high above every other purpose, was her unfailing devotion to
her husband and his work, and no other task ever interfered with her
careful watch over his health and her keen interest in his writing. He
appreciated her aid from the bottom of his heart, and in the
dedication to his last unfinished novel, _Weir of Hermiston_, he
endeavours to express in some degree his profound sense of obligation:

"I saw the rain falling and the rainbow drawn
On Lammermuir. Hearkening, I heard again
In my precipitous city beaten bells
Winnow the keen sea wind. And here afar,
Intent on my own race and place I wrote.
Take thou the writing; thine it is. For who
Burnished the sword, blew on the drowsy coal,
Held still the target higher; chary of praise
And prodigal of counsel--who but thou?
So now in the end; if t