On the 1st of March, 1875, there was a paragraph in the _Scotsman_, speaking of Richard's death, and of me as a widow, which gave me a few very unhappy hours. I telegraphed to Trieste at once, packed and prepared money to start; but I got a telegram as soon as a return could be, saying, "I am eating a very good dinner at _table d'hôte_." [Sidenote: _Winwood Reade's Death_.] During all the month of April I was very sad about Winwood Reade, who was living, or rather dying, alone in a wretched little room at the top of a house. I used to go and see him every day and try and cheer him, and take him anything I fancied he could touch. I asked him if money could be of any use to him, but he told me he had quite enough to last him for the time he had to live. What distressed me the most of all, was the state he was dying in, which to me was dreadful, because he said he had no belief, and it seemed true. Of course it was useless--it was no business of mine; but I could not help doing my best during the last fortnight of his life to induce him to believe in God, and to be sorry before he died. Three or four days before he died, Mr. and Mrs. Sandwith, who were very old friends of his, removed him to their place, "The Old House, Wimbledon," where he passed away quietly on the 24th of April, 1875. He had caught a cold sitting up at night to write his last book, and had accomplished it in six weeks, but the cold settled on his chest. R.I.P. On the 5th of May I went to the Drawing-room, and on the 12th of May Richard arrived himself, and we did a great deal of visiting and a great deal of Society in the evening. This year Richard established his "Divans." They were to be every other Sunday--only men. They were to drop in after dinner, or opera, or club. We were ready at half-past nine. We had mild refreshments, brandies and sodas, various drinks, smoking and talk, and he made me preside, but he would not allow me to invite other women; he said it would spoil the Divan character of the thing. Our first was on the 23rd of May.