The shadows of evening have fallen about the life of our revered heroine. Miss Nightingale has not left her London house for many years, and remains principally in bed. Her mind is still unclouded, and she follows with something of the old eager spirit the events of the day, more particularly those which relate to the nursing world. She is no longer able to deal personally with her correspondence, all of which passes through the hands of her secretary. Nothing gives her greater pleasure than to chat over past days with her old friends and fellow-workers, and she occasionally receives by invitation members of the nursing profession who are heads of institutions with which her name is connected. She followed with intense interest the elaborate preparations made for dealing with the sick and wounded in the South African War, bringing home to her as it so vividly did the difficulties of the pioneer work at the time of the Crimean campaign. It gave her peculiar pleasure to receive and bid God-speed to some of the nurses before their departure for South Africa. Even at her great age Miss Nightingale retains the distinction of manner and speech which gave her such influence in the past, and now and again a flash of the old shrewd wit breaks out when views with which she is not in agreement are advanced. Her friends marvel most at the almost youthful roundness and placidity of her face. Time has scarcely printed a line on her brow, or a wrinkle on her cheeks, or clouded the clearness of her penetrating eyes, which is the more remarkable when it is remembered that she has been a suffering and over-worked invalid ever since her return from the Crimea. The dainty lace cap falling over the silver hair in long lapels gives a charming frame to Miss Nightingale’s face which is singularly beautiful in old age. When receiving a visitor, she seems, as one phrased it, “to talk with her hands,” which retain their beautiful shape, and which she has a habit of moving over the coverlet, as from a sitting posture she inclines towards her friends in the course of conversation. A delightful trait in Miss Nightingale’s character is the honour which she pays to the women of a younger generation, who are now bearing the heat and burden of the day. “Will you give me your blessing?” said the Superintendent of a benevolent institution to her recently, when taking her leave. “And you must give me _your_ blessing,” replied Miss Nightingale, as she took her hand. On another occasion she said to the same lady, after listening to an account of good work going successfully forward, “Why, you have put new life into me.”