“My local position between these two points of attraction,” writes Mary, “has often procured for me the gratification of seeing my American friends when making that journey; but during _this_ visit a little circumstance occurred so characteristic, so graceful, and so gracious that I cannot resist the temptation of relating it. “Walking in my cottage garden we talked naturally of the roses and pinks that surrounded us, and of the different indigenous flowers of our island and of the United States.... We spoke of the primrose and the cowslip immortalized by Shakespeare and by Milton; and the sweet-scented violets, both white and purple of our hedgerows and our lanes; that known as the violet [yellow] being, I suspect, the little wild pansy (viola tricolor) renowned as the love-in-idleness of Shakespeare’s famous compliment to Queen Elizabeth.... I expressed an interest in two flowers known to me only by the vivid descriptions of Miss Martineau; the scarlet lily of New York and of the Canadian woods, and the original gentian of Niagara. I observed that our illustrious guest made some remark to one of the ladies of his party; but I little expected that so soon after his return as seeds of these plants could be procured, I should receive a packet of each, signed and directed by his own hand. How much pleasure these little kindnesses give! And how many such have come to me from over the same wide ocean!” On New Year’s Day, 1830, Mrs. Mitford died after a short illness. An affecting account of her last hours was written by her daughter, in which she says: “No human being was ever so devoted to her duties—so just, so pious, so charitable, so true, so feminine, so generous.... Never thinking of herself, the most devoted wife and the most faithful friend. She died in a good old age, universally beloved and respected.” Mrs. Mitford was buried in Shinfield Church—the parish church of Three Mile Cross and the other surrounding villages where the Mitfords used to worship. We have visited the place, which does not seem to have changed much since Miss Mitford described it in one of her village stories. She speaks of “the tower of the old village church fancifully ornamented with brick-work, and of the churchyard planted with broad flowering limes and funereal yew-trees, also of a short avenue of magnificent oaks leading up to the church. “It stands,” she says, “amidst a labyrinth of green lanes running through a hilly and richly wooded country whose valleys are threaded by the silver Loddon.” In the month of June of this same year Mary received an interesting letter from the American authoress, Miss Sedgwick, whose works, especially those for children, were much read in this country some years ago.