listener to requests and comment, she wrote you promptly and with the most engaging personal touch. If you sent her your book, she read it with a painstaking intentness and returned you, not a formal note of thanks, but a full and rich review wherein you were praised to the top of your deserts, your failings touched lightly but honestly and your errors spotted with the scholar’s acumen. And if she could commend you whole-heartedly, and with no even courteous reservations, then she was as happy in the writing as you in reading it. There was no smallest trace in her of carping for the satisfaction of showing how brave a critic she could be, no sense of blustering privilege. But the letters! written in a gush of mental exuberance, sometimes the faster the better, a tumultuous beauty of diction,—you shook the tree and you got such fruit; the wind of your favor blew her way and unloosed on you that petalled or ripened shower. Those were the spontaneities of her life; those, in their lasting evanescence, she has yet to bequeath us, a priceless legacy. What did the war do to her? We cannot wholly say. We know how deeply she had breathed in the life of Oxford, and that she was among those who suffered pangs over “the Oxford men Who went abroad to die.” There are tenderest and most admiring allusions to this or that boy who stayed not upon the order of his going into khaki. “War, war!” was one of the first cries from her. “It is unbelievable, yet it is. England is on the defensive: God save her, I say! Boys I know are being rushed off in the Territorials and Reserves to keep the coast; and there are already rumors that there will be no October Term for the University. . . . Terly-terlo! as the trumpets say in the old Carol. ‘If it be not now yet it will come: the readiness is all.’” And again, in 1915: “It enrages me to be an Alien ‘neutral.’ You’ll remember the passionate affection I have ever shown for everything German. Bah!” (No need of indicating to those who knew her the thread of irony in this last!) “Would I were at the front. . . . If England doesn’t pull through, no more will liberty and civilization.” And she had her prophetic despondencies. In March, 1919, she wrote with a bitterness unfamiliar from her bounding pen: “Oh, what a rabble of a world it is! and why did the wretched soft-soapers interrupt Foch by granting that armistice when another three weeks of him would have cut the claws of all the Devils forever! _A bas les civiles!_” There spoke the unhesitating mind of one who knew the grim job ought to have been effectively ended, the tongue of one who came of soldier blood. We may guess that the strain of those last years sapped and undermined her in ways the soldier spirit would not betray. We know she qualified in them for that Paradise she most desired, of those who “die, driven against the wall.”