More than this,—even at the time of which we are writing, she was one of those with whom people know instinctively that it is safe to speak, not only of the great things of life, but of the disgraceful things, or the small disconcerting things that want to be looked at in an atmosphere of greatness. She was a Mother Confessor to many. “Now straight into the fire!” she says in her diary of certain letters she had received; and the smoke of that sacrifice meant something, for—born chronicler as she was—it was pain and grief to her to destroy a letter at any time. She was particularly happy that winter term. On the last night of the year she writes in her diary: “11.30 p.m. The long tangle of accounts unravelled at last!—‘after long travail, good repose!’ In more senses than one. Nine years since that look from the window,—‘And may the New Year cherish.’ Since then I suppose no such (visibly) important year in my life. One very dear friend won,—one strong ally,—Edinburgh opened!—What if one _is_ a little tired? ‘After long travail good repose!’ I see that a year ago I thought there were no hopes ‘now bright,’—and ‘an hour of joy I knew not was winging its silent flight.’ Indeed the next six months did cut out their own work. The year has been glorious in many ways. The chief point of pain....” The chief point of pain was the fear that she was fickle,—that the new interests and friendships were making her disloyal to the strange unearthly friendship for Octavia Hill. Whether this would have been blameworthy is a question that it is unnecessary to discuss, as the contingency never arose. The flame may have flickered and sunk low, but it continued to burn for another forty years. Then “after long travail good repose.” And in any case she was very happy that winter term. Strangely enough,[57] her family were thoroughly sympathetic with her aims. Discussing the volume of Essays to which she had contributed, her brother wrote: