Lady Benthorpe held the helm meanwhile unflinchingly in her large grasp. She was of that kind which old Sutter finely calls “strong women of the Lord”; of that kind which devised the motto: “_Homo sum: nihil humanum a me alienum puto._” To the last she kept an open political drawing-room, of considerable if decreasing account with the literary and professional classes, using for that purpose in winter the town house of her sister, but during the season the large room of the Progress Galleries, to the left—on the first landing. Most women, under such a strain, would have abandoned the struggle. Many would have demanded the adventitious aid of stimulating drugs. Her pride disdained it. She sought the relief of which she stood in need, from wines of the more hygienic sort, especially the lighter sparkling wines so strongly recommended by the Faculty; and even to such medicine she forebore to have recourse until the years of decline, when the frail body could no longer support the indomitable soul within. Her doctor was fully cognisant of her need. He has assured me that the last sad months owed their tragedy to nothing more than the exhaustion of that admirable brain. To the very end she was occasionally present at her husband’s table, though her conversation was no longer of the sobriety which once lent a special distinction to that board; and when Lord Benthorpe found it necessary in 1886 to step once more upon the platform in defence of the integrity of the Empire—or, as it was then called, the Kingdom—she accompanied him several times. It was with difficulty that she was persuaded to abandon her design to appear at the great meeting in the Albert Hall. She died in February 1887, at the early age of forty-one years, three months and two days. Her end, though clouded by the most grievous nervous trouble, was comforted and enlightened by the presence of two beings whom it would be ignoble to dismiss from this record without a passing mention: Mr Warner, the amiable scholar, to whom (as his former tutor) Lord Benthorpe had presented the living of Great Monckton, at the very gates of the park, and his wife, Mrs Warner, whose wonderful little book, “Hours of Healing” wafted the spirit of the dying peeress from earth to heaven. [Illustration: LORD BENTHORPE PREVENTING THE DISRUPTION OF THE EMPIRE] It has been remarked that the difficulty of pronouncing the aspirates in the title of this spiritual work betrayed a novice in the art of letters. I am not competent to adjudge upon this criticism; but, if it be well found, I may at least point out the marvel of a faith which could redeem any ignorance of mere composition, and infuse so exalted a quality into the prose of an untried pen. * * * * *