anybody so good who thought himself of so little account. He always
believed that he had missed everything, wasted everything, and that
anybody else would have made infinitely more out of his life. He vas
always blaming, scourging himself. And all the time he was the
noblest, purest, most devoted--'

"She stopped. Her voice had passed beyond her control. Elsmere was
startled by the feeling she showed. Evidently he had touched one of
the few sore places in this pure heart. It was as though her memory
of her father had in it elements of almost intolerable pathos, as
though the child's brooding love and loyalty were in perpetual
protest even now after this lapse of years against the verdict which
an over-scrupulous, despondent soul had pronounced upon itself. Did
she feel that he had gone uncomforted out of life--even by her--even
by religion? Was that the sting?"

A little later she gives the record of his last hours:--

[60] "'Catherine! Life is harder, the narrower way narrower than
ever. I die--and memory caught still the piteous long-drawn breath
by which the voice was broken--'in much--much perplexity about many
things. You have a clear soul, an iron will. Strengthen the others.
Bring them safe to the day of account.'"

And then the smaller--some of them, ethically, very small--women;
Lady Wynnstay, Mrs. Fleming, Mrs. Thornburgh; above all, Robert's
delightful Irish mother, and Mrs. Darcy; how excellent they are!
Mrs. Darcy we seem to have known, yet cannot have enough of, rejoiced
to catch sight of her capital letter on the page, as we read on. In
truth, if a high and ideal purpose, really learned in the school of