She dwells with pardonable pride on her love for the drama and the dance. Those who knew well her proficiency in these will prefer to let their memory rest on the brilliant wit and imperturbable good nature which made her a welcome guest in many societies. As a girl she had many opportunities of sharing in the Court life of her own country and more than one continental state. Later she became intimate with literary men of the highest position. All through her life she had the _entrée_ to many pleasant country houses, in which were gathered men of influence in affairs, and clever and amusing women full of knowledge of the events of the society in which they moved. She was everywhere popular, and this was not a little due to the fact that she hated scandal and eschewed gossip. She could not be ill-natured if she chose. Probably the severest thing she ever uttered was said of a young man who, seeking a greater prominence than he deserved, had somehow trodden on her toes. “Well, but, Mary, you must at any rate admit that he is a good mimic.” “Is he? then I wish he would always imitate some one else.” I have reason to believe she even repented this. In my father’s house there was ever a room allotted to her and known by her name. It was occasionally my privilege to occupy it, and to read her collection of volumes of many sorts and many styles. It was there that I read much of Landor, Browning and Mrs Browning, and all, or nearly all, the novels of G. P. R. James, whom she called her literary godfather, and whose influence is traceable in her novels of “A State Prisoner” and “The Foresters.” With my father’s children, when we were children, she was the object of the keenest admiration and the warmest love. She joyed in our joys, and soothed our sorrows with unfailing tact. In later years it was a source of no little regret to us that her roving life and somewhat restless disposition deprived us of some opportunities of returning the care she lavished on us when we were young. I am probably not alone in wishing that she had written more than she did. The two novels to which I have referred have nothing to lose in comparison with those of later writers, who have had a far wider circulation than she. Graceful and graphic, they are marked by a purity of plot and a delicacy of taste which make no attempt to season pleasure with offence. She was not of those who consider it impossible to interest or amuse without the introduction if not of that which is unclean, at least of that which is bizarre. Later in life she produced a short sketch of character called “Tangled Weft,” which probably would have been more widely read had it been less refined.[1] Footnote 1: She also wrote a small volume of Poems, “My Portrait Gallery and other Poems.” Dedicated to Walter Savage Landor. Privately printed in London, 1849.