The morning after Fawcett’s going, Lady Courtney told the news to her parlourmaid, who had known Fawcett. On entering the kitchen, to her surprise the cook burst out weeping and sat by the table rocking herself to and fro. ‘Why,’ said Lady Courtney, ‘Maria, you didn’t know Mr. Fawcett, did you?’ ‘Ah, yes, your ladyship, I knew him, the kind gentleman. It was when you and his lordship were out of town. I opened the door for him, and when he found you were not at home, he said, “I have been here to dine very often, and I want to know you.” “Oh no, sir,” says I, “I’m only the cook,” with which he puts out his hand and shakes mine like an old friend, as he says, “Well, I’m very glad indeed to meet you.” Then I offered him a glass of water, ma’am, which he drank so grateful.’ Lady Courtney queried, ‘But Maria, why didn’t you offer him tea, for the credit of the house?’ ‘Oh, your ladyship, I didn’t dare to, for fear he’d see the state of the house with your ladyship away.’ When the news came to the House of Commons, sudden as such news always is, it fell to the Marquis of Hartington to announce it to the House. It is said that he all but broke down. [Sidenote: Sorrow in Parliament.] Later in the evening there were more formal expressions of grief. Sir Stafford Northcote, on behalf of the Conservative Party, whom Fawcett had so consistently opposed, spoke of the loss the House had sustained, and said: ‘I do not think anybody can recall a single word that ever fell from him that gave unnecessary offence or pain to any one.’ The Marquis of Hartington, on behalf of the Government, said Fawcett commanded the ‘respect, I think I may say the affection, of the whole House’; and Mr. Justin McCarthy, on behalf of the Irish Party, spoke with much feeling of ‘the sudden and melancholy close of so promising and great a career.’ The next evening Gladstone, who had not been present the night before, said: ‘Mr. Fawcett’s name is a name which is heard in all quarters of the House with feelings of the greatest respect. We have all been accustomed to regard with admiration his admirable integrity and independence of mind, his absolute devotion to the public service, the marvellous tenacity of his memory, combined with his remarkable clearness of mental vision; and, I think, even above all these, if possible, the rare courage, the unfailing, the unmeasured courage, with which he confronted and mastered all the difficulties which would have daunted and repelled an ordinary man in connection with the loss of the precious gift of sight. From these and other causes he acquired a place in the hearts and minds such as is undoubtedly accorded to few; and I believe that he had won a place equally high in the esteem and respect of the House of Commons. I wish in these few words to place on record, in the name of myself and my colleagues, our deep sense of the loss of a most distinguished public servant.’ The last words were