nd bought a beautiful
volume of Tennyson, illustrated by Millais, Holman Hunt, Rossetti,
and others, and made a sketch on the fly-leaf of a lovely female
with black hair and black eyes, and gave it to Leah Gibson. It was
his old female face of ten years ago; yet, strange to say, the very
image of Leah herself (as it had once been that of his mother).

The great happiness of his life just then was to go to the opera
with Mrs. Gibson and Leah and Mr. Babbage (the family friend), who
could get a box whenever he liked, and then to sup with them
afterwards in Conduit Street, over the Emporium of the "Universal
Fur Company," and to imitate Signor Giuglini for the delectation of
Mr. Gibson, whose fondness for Barty soon grew into absolute
worship!

And Leah, so reserved and self-contained in general company, would
laugh till the tears ran down her cheeks; and the music of her
laughter, which was deep and low, rang more agreeably to Barty's ear
than even the ravishing strains of Adelina Patti--the last of the
great prime donne of our time, I think--whose voice still stirs me
to the depths, with vague remembrance of fresh girlish innocence
turned into sound.

Long life to her and to her voice! Lovely voices should never fade,
nor pretty faces either!

Sometimes I replaced Mr. Babbage and escorted Mrs. Gibson to the
opera, leaving Leah to Barty; for on fine nights we walked there,
and the ladies took off their bonnets and shawls in the box, which
was generally on the upper tier, and we looked down on Scatcherd and
my mother and sister in the stalls. Then back to Conduit Street to
supper. It was easy with half an eye to see the way things were
going. I can't say I liked it. No man would, I suppose. But I
reconciled myself to the inevitable, and bore up like a stoic.

L'amitie est l'amour sans ailes! A happy intimate friendship, a
wingless love that has lasted more than thirty years without a
break, is no bad substitute for tumultuous passions that have missed
their mark! I have been as close a friend to Barty's wife as to
Barty himself, and all the happiness I have ever known has come from
them and theirs.

Walking home, poor Mrs. Gibson would confide to me her woes and
anxieties, and wail over the past glories of Tavistock Square and
all the nice people who lived there, and in Russell Square and
Bedford Street and Gower Street, many of whom had given up calling
on her now that she lived over a shop. Not all the livelines