She lived in the intellectual world of the Greek poets, and of Addison, Swift and Racine; and there was a leisure and a scholarly atmosphere about her life that seemed to banish the hurry and turmoil of the modern world at her gate. She was extremely generous in subscribing to what she termed "Organizations for the better conduct of charitable relief," and, though of no particular religious belief, she subscribed to the various objects of local charity when asked to do so by the clergyman of the parish. The latter gentleman once made the mistake of offering to read the Scriptures to her on the occasion of an illness, and I well remember his face of consternation when she replied: "I thank you, Mr. ----, but I am still well able to read, and the Scriptures do not interest me." Yet during the many years I spent in constant companionship with her the quiet peace which reigned by her side gave me the most restful and soothing hours of my life. After we had paid her several visits in this way she informed me that she had ascertained that I was much alone, that she was very tenderly attached to me, and would wish to provide for me and my children if I would come to live near her so that I could be her constant companion. She added that she considered that this arrangement would {43} be more "seemly" for me, as Willie was obliged to be away from home so much. After consultation with the (county court) judge, Gordon Whitbread, her nephew and my cousin, who always transacted her business for her, she bought a house for me at the other side of her park, and arranged to settle a regular income on me and to educate my children. In return she asked that her "Swan"--as she always called me--should be her daily companion. This I was until her death, at the age of ninety-four, about fifteen years later. My aunt lived a life of great seclusion, and, with the exception of George Meredith (the author), and the Rev. ---- Wilkinson, who each came down once a week to read to her, her oculist and great friend, Dr. Bader, and two old ladies, friends of her youth, she rarely saw anyone. Her house--"The Lodge," Eltham--was fine old Georgian, spoilt inside by the erection of mock pillars in the hall. She was very particular that no one should tread upon the highly polished floors, and, as the two large halls had only rugs laid about on the shining surface, one had either to make many "tacks" to reach the desired door or seat, or take a short cut on tiptoe and risk her "displeasure."