Though he retained his childlike curiosity, it is notable that he was absolutely free from ill-nature, and one of his intimates states that he never heard Fawcett say an ill-natured thing or intentionally spread a possibly mischievous rumour. Though he had a splendid contempt for certain weaknesses, he was always discreet, and tried his best to promote kindly feeling. His love of talk was so infective that it stimulated a flow in those who without him would have been reticent or silent. [Sidenote: Meeting Mill.] In Cambridge he used to be teased about his total lack of any embarrassment or shyness, but he would answer these sallies with, ‘If you could ever see me meeting Mill, you would see me awkward enough!’ The meeting took place, but not in the presence of these Cambridge cronies; and what happened was never known, as Fawcett kept this sacred mystery to himself. In the letter, already mentioned, written to Mill in 1859, he says that he is ‘personally a stranger to you,’ and then alludes to ‘the very kind sympathy you have expressed to me,’ and continues: [Sidenote: Correspon-dence with Mill.] For the last three years your books have been the chief education of my mind; I consequently have entertained towards you such a sense of gratitude as I can only hope at all adequately to repay by doing what lies in my power to propagate the valuable truths contained in every page of your writing. He certainly was a deeply attached pupil. He writes later: Pray accept my most sincere thanks for your letter; I cannot tell you how much I value your words of kind encouragement. Often when I reflect on my affliction, I feel that it is rash on my part to attempt anything like a career of public usefulness; and again and again, I am sure, my heart would fail me if it was not stimulated by your thoughts and teachings. I can therefore assure you that your kind words will remove many an obstacle to my course. This allusion to his blindness and to the depressing effect that it had in making him doubt at times the practicability of his having a ‘career of public usefulness’ is as unusual for him as it is touching. Even his iron will could not exclude the quiet moments when his disaster weighed on him with the force of its full burden, and he could not at all times banish a wistful expression which his friends grew to recognise when his face was not animated by talk or the stimulus of debate. It is even reproduced in some of the photographs, which show on his features the calm acceptance of a great tragedy. Mill had not long lost the wife who had so radiantly coloured an otherwise grey existence, and doubtless the cordial admiration and the open-hearted friendship of the younger economist was very pleasant to him.