M. Plauchut, a literary friend and a visitor at Nohant, during the last decade of her lifetime, gives a picture of the order of her day; it is simplicity itself. Nine o’clock, in summer and in winter alike, was her hour of waking. Letters and newspapers would occupy her until noon, when she came down to join the family _déjeûner_. Afterwards she would stroll for an hour in the garden and the wood, visiting and tending her favorite plants and flowers. At two o’clock she would come indoors to give a lesson to her grandchildren, in the library, or work there on her own account, undistracted by the romps around her. Dinner at six was followed by a short evening walk, after which she played with the children, or set them dancing indoors. She liked to sit at the piano, playing over to herself bits of music by her favorite Mozart, or old Spanish and Berrichon airs. After a game of dominoes or cards, she would still sit up so late, occupying herself with water-color painting or otherwise, that sometimes her son was obliged to take away the lights. These long evenings, the same writer bears witness, sometimes afforded rare opportunities of hearing Madame Sand talk of the events and the men of her time. In the absolute quiet of the country, among a small circle of responsive minds, she, so silent otherwise, became expansive. “Those who have never heard George Sand at such hours,” he concludes, “have never known her. She spoke well, with great elevation of ideas, charming eloquence, and a spirit of infinite indulgence.” When, at length, she retired, it was to write on until the morning hours, according to her old habit, only relinquished when her health made this imperative. BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Not brilliant in general conversation.] [Sidenote: Her cigarette.] George Sand had none of the brilliancy and repartee in general conversation one would have expected, and as the years went on she became more silent and reserved. Her greatest happiness was to sit in her arm-chair, smoking cigarettes. Often, when her friends thought she was absorbed in her own meditations, she would put in a word that proved she had been listening to everything. The word spoken, she would relapse again into silence. [Sidenote: Manner of working.] It was only when she sat down to her desk that she became eloquent, and the expressions that halted on her lips rushed abundantly from her pen. Her characters grew beneath her hand, and she went on writing, with that perfect style which is like the rhythmic cadence of a great river--“large, calm, and regular.” George Sand worked all night long, after all her guests were in bed, sometimes remaining up until five o’clock in the morning. She generally sat down to the old bureau in the hall at Nohant, with pen, ink, and foolscap paper sewn together, and began, without notes or a settled scheme of any kind. ---- ----: _George Sand_. ‘Temple Bar.’