childhood, I desired to view the place where her last days were spent. It
was a fine May day when I took the little steamer from London Bridge for
Chelsea.

A bird-call from the dingy brick building where Turner died, and two
blocks from the old home of Carlyle, is Cheyne Walk--a broad avenue
facing the river. The houses are old, but they have a look of gracious
gentility that speaks of ease and plenty. High iron fences are in front,
but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of
roses that gather over the windows and doors.

I stood at the gate of Number 4 Cheyne Walk and admired the pretty
flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then
I rang the bell--an old pull-out affair with polished knob.

Presently a butler opened the door--a pompous, tall and awful butler in
serious black and with side-whiskers. He approached; came down the walk
swinging a bunch of keys, looking me over as he came, to see what sort
of wares I had to sell.

"Did George Eliot live here?" I asked through the bars.

"Mrs. Cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, sir," came the solemn and rebuking
answer.

"I mean Mrs. Cross," I added meekly; "I only wished to see the little
garden where she worked."

Jeemes was softened. As he unlocked the gate he said: