The whole of this movement, now spreading rapidly, has come from Mrs. Ewing’s sweetly pathetic story, which appeared under its familiar title of _A Story of a Short Life_ only four days before the death of its author in 1885. Some three years previously it had been issued in magazine form under the forbidding Latin title of its motto. An Irishman, who was a Dorsetshire parson, came with a present of magnificent climbing roses to Mrs. Ewing a short time afterwards. When he was thanked for his gift, he said rather grumpily, “You’ve given me pleasure enough—and to lots of others.” Then he suddenly _chirped_ up and said, “_Lætus_ cost me 2s. 6d. though. My wife bet me 2s. 6d. I couldn’t read it aloud without crying. I thought I could. But after a page or two I put my hand in my pocket. I said, ‘There—take your half-crown, and let me cry comfortably when I want to!’”[2] We understand that this tale is based largely on life; certainly it enshrines much of the surroundings of Aldershot, where Major and Mrs. Ewing lived for eight years. In it we have the life-history of the lad Leonard, and trace how this high-spirited and spoiled child conquers his peevishness and triumphs over the limitations of his lot as a cripple. For a time after his accident his violent and irritable temper carries all before it; his very crutches become “implements of impatience”; but he is subdued, and eventually transfigured by intercourse with a gallant officer wearing the Victoria Cross, who teaches him that he, too, may be a happy warrior, and, though “doomed to go in company with pain,” may “turn his necessity to glorious gain,” and count himself as true a soldier as any wounded on the battle-field. Leonard not only becomes brave and patient, but he forms a book or register of “Poor Things,” that is, of people who, like the blind organ-tuner, manage almost as well in spite of their troubles. In this roll of honour he inscribes the names of those who “argue not Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate one jot Or heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward.” Hence the name of the guild, which is itself a beautiful posthumous memorial to the genius and sympathy of its creator. And here it is pleasing to record an incident of Mrs. Ewing’s last illness. In one of her paroxysms of pain she expressed a fear to the doctor that she had been impatient. He answered, “Indeed you are not. I think you deserve a Victoria Cross for the way in which you bear it.” This afforded her intense satisfaction, as it was known that the doctor had not read _A Story of a Short Life_ itself.