mornings were spent in giving lectures and telling stories at schools.

A letter to the widow of an old college friend reveals the
extraordinary sensitiveness of his nature:--

2, Bedford Well Road, Eastbourne,

_August_ 2, 1897.

My Dear Mrs. Woodhouse,--Your letter, with its mournful
news, followed me down here, and I only got it on Saturday
night; so I was not able to be with you in thought when the
mortal remains of my dear old friend were being committed to
the ground; to await the time when our Heavenly Father shall
have accomplished the number of His elect, and when you and
I shall once more meet the loved ones from whom we are, for
a little while only--what a little while even a long human
life lasts!--parted in sorrow, yet _not_ sorrowing as
those without hope.

You will be sure without words of mine, that you have my
true and deep sympathy. Of all the friends I made at Ch.
Ch., your husband was the very _first_ who spoke to
me--across the dinner-table in Hall. That is forty-six years
ago, but I remember, as if it were only yesterday, the
kindly smile with which he spoke....

September 27th and 28th are marked in his Diary "with a white
stone":--