Attached to the property was a home-farm of some seventy acres, which had been allowed to get into a very backward state. Roscoe, with no previous experience of farming, resolved to bring it into better condition, and with the help of his Westmoreland bailiff he gradually succeeded in doing so. The business was a constant interest to him. He was proud of his cart-horses which gained commendation and prizes at the local shows; of his well-bred Jersey cows; of his breed of Berkshire pigs—the little pigs were a constant source of amusement—and of his poultry. He records with much satisfaction that “our” field—(he always associated his bailiff with these agricultural triumphs, as he always associated his co-workers with his scientific achievements)—“our field of swedes on several occasions received the first prize for the best show twenty miles round Guildford.” He went round his farm as he used to go round his laboratory, and seemed to be on the same genial terms with every animal on it as he had been with his students. The affectionate regard with which he used to contemplate an old sow—a most prolific creature by the way—was a source of much fun to his friends. If she did not wholly succeed in “paying the rint,” she doubtless did her best towards it, and so merited and received commendation. The hospitality of Woodcote is a treasured memory to numbers of Roscoe’s friends. Few week-ends passed without one or more of them sharing its pleasures with him. Sometimes it would be one of his old associates in scientific work, or a political acquaintance, or a literary friend, or some distinguished man of science from abroad. Indeed, few foreign scientific men of any note passed through London without finding their way to Roscoe’s hospitable board. My father (says Miss Roscoe) delighted to bring foreigners, and the more heterogeneous they were the more he was pleased. I remember one luncheon party of late years, consisting of a Chinaman, a Japanese, a Czech, a German, and our three selves, and the Occidentals were much the quietest of the party. The visitors’ book at Woodcote is a possession of no little historical interest. In spite of their varied delights and restful charm there were times when Roscoe was not wholly content to breathe his native air in his own grounds: pigs, poultry, and potatoes, as he said, occasionally lost their spell, and “the pathetic sadness of a garden in autumn” would drive him and Lady Roscoe to a sunnier clime. Grasse, Italy, Egypt, Sicily, Algiers, Tunis, Biskra were in turn visited by them during different winters. Both he and his wife were fond of foreign travel, and well-written books of travel were a constant source of interest to her. And so the evening of their lives drew to its close. Her end came swiftly—and with scarce a warning. His call was to come five years afterwards, and was to be no less sudden and equally unlooked for.