If I here permit myself to recall one
or two incidents of our intercourse, it is solely because they bear
either upon her amiable disposition or her art. I remember that once,
during a country walk in Sussex, she gave me a long account of her
childhood, which I wish I could repeat in detail. But I know that she
told me that she had been brought up in just such a neighbourhood of
thatched roofs and "grey old gardens" as she depicts in her drawings;
and that in some of the houses, it was her particular and unfailing
delight to turn over ancient chests and wardrobes filled with the
flowered frocks and capes of the Jane Austen period. As is well known,
she corresponded frequently with Ruskin, and possessed numbers of his
letters. In his latter years, it had been her practice to write to him
periodically--I believe she said once a week. He had long ceased,
probably from ill-health, to answer her letters; but she continued to
write punctually lest he should miss the little budget of chit-chat to
which he had grown accustomed. At another time--in a pleasant
country-house which contained many examples of her art--and where she
was putting the last touches to a delicately tinted child-angel in the
margin of a Bible--I ventured to say, "Why do your children always .
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