Are there any novelists to-day who make enormous sums? When Sir Walter Besant himself died he left only £6000. * * * * * Looking back into the recesses of one’s memory two women writers, who died within a few weeks of each other (1906), come to mind; two women entirely distinct in their lives and in their deaths, in their writings, in their purpose. One rich, popular, and brilliant; the other poor, popular, and—less brilliant, perhaps, but so extraordinarily brave and persevering, that if it be true that genius is the capacity to take infinite pains, no one will deny the late Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s genius. The first woman writer of these two was Mrs. Craigie (John Oliver Hobbes). And Mrs. Craigie was herself a dual personality. As a girl she was full of romance, sentiment, enthusiasm, and fire. Mrs. Craigie as a woman renounced romance—of which she had but a sad experience—and sought solace in religion. The dissection of love and the solace of religion became the keynotes of her writings. “John Oliver Hobbes” was another person altogether. He was a cynic, clever, brilliant, at times as hard as his name implied. He was the mask, the curb by which the budding womanhood of Mrs. Craigie was extinguished and held in check. The death of this duplex personality was a real loss. A paradox often ends conversation, the listener is so busy trying to unravel its meaning. But a paradox in a book often stimulates the reader, and Mrs. Craigie was a master of paradoxes. No one could honestly wish her back. Her death was ideal. At the zenith of her power, in the prime of her life and looks, with the happiness of unfulfilled dreams still before her, she lay down quietly to rest and passed away. She was a handsome woman, with wit and charm; her parents were rich, she acquired position, and she commanded respect by her work. She did not live to grow old or grey, she just slipped the cable when all the world was rose-colour and the sun shone. Mrs. Craigie’s face when in repose had a melancholy aspect, her tongue was often bitter. Like all Americans, she loved titles and craved for social success; for, clever and brilliant writer as “John Oliver Hobbes” was, Mrs. Craigie was undoubtedly a woman of the world. To a certain extent her life was dwarfed. An unhappy marriage, in which she early divorced her husband, kept the woman in her nature from expanding; she imposed restraint upon all her actions, all her thoughts. She never—even in her writings—let herself go. Mrs. Craigie was of medium height, with a slight figure, piercing eyes, and dark hair, which she wore very simply. She was an excellent _raconteur_, and a delightful neighbour at a dinner-table. She certainly showed to greater advantage in the company of men than of women, in which characteristic she was somewhat un-American. Knowing this want of sympathy with her own sex, she rarely appeared at women’s functions.