but yet it was not merely a tender and deferential sentiment. He laid
his mind open before her, and it was safe to do that, because my mother
never had any wish to prevail by sentiment or by claiming loyalty. He
knew that she would be perfectly candid too, with love waiting behind
all conflict of opinion. And thus their relation was the most perfect
that could be imagined, because he knew that he could speak and act with
entire freedom, while he recognised the breadth and strength of her
mind, and the insight of her love. No one can really understand Hugh's
life without a knowledge of what my mother was to him--an equal friend,
a trusted adviser, a candid critic, and a tender mother as well. And
even when he went his own way, as he did about health and work, though
she foresaw only too clearly what the end might be, and indeed what it
actually was, she always recognised that he had a right to live as he
chose and to work as he desired. She was not in the least blind to his
lesser faults of temperament, nor did she ever construct an artificial
image of him. My family has, I have no doubt, an unusual freedom of
mutual criticism. I do not think we have ever felt it to be disloyal to
see each other in a clear light. But I am inclined to believe that the
affection which subsists without the necessity of cherishing illusions,
has a solidity about it which more purely sentimental loyalties do not
always possess. And I have known few relations so perfect as those
between Hugh and my mother, because they were absolutely tender and
chivalrous, and at the same time wholly candid, natural, and open-eyed.

It was at this time that my eldest sister died quite suddenly of
diphtheria. I have told something of her life elsewhere. She had
considerable artistic gifts, in music, painting, and writing. She had
written a novel, and left unpublished a beautiful little book of her own
experiences among the poor, called _Streets and Lanes of the City_. It
was privately printed, and is full of charming humour and delicate