Her intensity of vital power kept her in touch with all young life. The strong love of little children, which was one of her most marked characteristics, was only the lovely blossoming of this vigorous growth; nothing refreshed her more, when she was tired of work, or worn with worries, than to have a “baby-show” of her nephews and nieces in their day, and then of their children and the children of old pupils. She liked just a few at a time, so that she might thoroughly enjoy them, when she would herself get out toys from her stores, watching the play while she and the mothers told stories of child wit and wisdom. One of her very latest pleasures in life was the visit of a little new namesake—a tiny “Frances Mary,” who will rejoice in the name though she can have no memory of the kind face that brightened at the sight of her baby ways—and one of her last quite coherent remarks was an inquiry for “little curly-head,” as she called her nephew’s little son. Here is a characteristic little story told by Mrs. Pierson— “At the house of an old friend the other day I met a young married lady with her baby. We were talking of Miss Buss, and she said, ‘I only saw her once, when I was five years old, but I have never forgotten her. She saved me from a cruel nurse who ran away from me, and hid in the coal-yards near Chalk Farm Station, while I cried because I was lost. A lady came by and took my hand and comforted me and asked me where I lived. “Near some mountains—red mountains,” I said, and her quick perception divined that I meant some new houses being built near Primrose Hill. She took me in the direction of Oppidan’s Road, where I soon recognized my home; and, after her interview with my mother, I need not say the nurse had to leave.’” It is delightful to read Miss Buss’ holiday letters about the children, who were often with their aunt while their parents went for rest and change. While the world was standing in awe of the “eminent educationalist” she was inditing sweet letters full of babytalk, of wise counsel hid in nonsense, or of the affection of which her heart was so full— “1865. “MY DEAR LITTLE MOTHER, “Oh! what a boy is ours! to talk about ‘jolly’! Naughty little monkey! We want a three-year old, not a grown-up boy. Kiss him thousands of times for his loving Arnie, whose heart goes out to him twenty times a day at least. She pictures to herself, over and over again, the sweet little shy face on the pier, and her boy waiting to throw himself into her arms when she lands. “I went last night to see Léonie, more especially to get a kiss of Nina.” “Stockholm, August 30, 1871. “MY DEAR LITTLE MOTHER,