My first introduction to Bessie Gilbert was when the Bishop had just taken possession of the palace at Chichester. I had been staying at Lavington with Archdeacon Manning (now the Cardinal), and we went together to sleep at the deanery (Dean Chandler's), and we all went to dine at the palace. Bessie was then very young, very slight and fragile looking, dressed as usual in white muslin, and with her dark spectacles immediately attracted my attention. In the evening she went to the piano, and sang very sweetly and with much pathos several familiar Scotch songs. I asked her if she knew certain others, mostly Jacobite songs, with which I was familiar from hearing my very dear friend William Harris (fellow of All Souls', a devoted lover of Prince Charlie) sing them. She at once warmed up and sang some of them. Others she did not know, and was glad to hear something about them. Under that gentle aspect there came out a heart full of fire and earnestness, which showed itself in her interest for suffering and heroism, and afterwards found field for its energy in her untiring efforts for the blind. Whenever we met there was always a warm shaking of the hand, and a feeling of sympathy of tastes between us. I had not seen much of persons suffering from blindness, and I was struck by her simple way of saying "I have not _seen_ him," or "I should like to _see_ it"--something like Zacharias "_asking_" for a writing-table. No one could be with Bessie Gilbert without feeling chastened by the presence of a true, pure, warm-hearted, earnest Christian girl. I breakfasted at the palace the next morning after service at the private chapel, and I was delighted at the Bishop's calling on one of the younger girls to say grace. Mrs. Gilbert told me they took it in turns. I should like to have heard Bessie's grace to her Heavenly Father. Very soon new friends gathered round the _sisterhood_; but at first the change, so far as society was concerned, was keenly felt by them. There were no Fellows of B.N.C. to come in with torn gowns to be mended, and talk of Catalani and Grisi; no more dinners in the Hall, none of the intellectual activity of university life. They had also far less of the company of a father greatly beloved by all his children. Official business at Chichester was much heavier than it had been at Oxford, and absorbed more of his time.