I have left England to “make good” and of all the people I love, and who love me, and whose eyes have followed me across the sea, Aunt Jennie’s were among the keenest. I would have liked to do my best work for her appreciation. Her praise, her approval, her advice, her love was something that counted. The loss of her, and the contemplation of years to face without ever seeing her again is difficult to grasp. I cannot imagine returning to an England that does not contain her. My second mother, my loyallest friend. She had the rarest qualities, and the largest heart, which made her loveable. She was “worldly-wise,” yet neither wise nor worldly. She loved passionately and generously as her heart dictated, and always she gave out more than she received. She married three times, and twice in a wayward and unworldly fashion. Partly what I am today is the result of her early influence. I used to admire and love her in a rather awe-struck way when I was a child, and when I was 17 I believed she could do no wrong. Her judgment seemed to me infallible. In those days we lived exactly opposite, in great Cumberland Place, London, and I used to sit with her every morning and while she dressed I was made to read the leading articles in the TIMES. I was very shy, having ran wild for years in Ireland. Aunt Jennie took the raw and untamed girl, taught her how to do her hair; made her put on her clothes with care, and scolded her into a civilized woman. She used to say to me: “While you are dressing, put your mind to it, and do the best you can with yourself. After that, never give your appearance another thought.” She would scold me unmercifully if I did not make an effort to talk to whatever man I sat next to at luncheon or dinner: “Remember you are asked, not for your amusement, but to contribute something to the party....” The letters of Lord Chesterfield to his son were as nothing compared to the worldly advice of Jennie Churchill to her niece. She frightened me, but I loved her, because I knew she was just, and I knew she was right. For years she took me out into the world and did with me the best she could. It became an accepted thing with me, that she had all the attention, and her admirers were kind to me on her account. I used to wonder whether I would have to wait to attain her age in order to have my own success. I never resented it, my admiration for her was too great, I just took for granted that things were so. In later years my awesome fear ebbed away, and we became confidential friends on a mature basis. I seemed after marriage to catch up to her, and in my widowhood we had a perfect understanding. There was nothing then that we would not tell one another and I bowed to her superior experience and judgment. Her understanding, her tolerance and her love had made her very precious. When I returned from Russia, she was my loyallest friend, and championed me. My last evening before sailing for New York,