providence of numerous families; but she had not in the least what
is called a parochial mind. She had no touch of the bustling and
efficient Lady Bountiful. The simple people she visited were her
friends and neighbours, not her patients and dependents. She was
simply an overflowing fountain of goodness, and it was a natural to
her to hurry to a scene of sorrow and suffering as it is for most
people to desire to stay away. My friend himself had not the same
taste; it was always rather an effort to him to accommodate himself
to people in a different way of life; but it ought to be said that
he was universally liked and respected for his quiet courtesy and
simplicity, and fully as much for his own sake as for that of his
wife. This fact could hardly be inferred from his Diary, and indeed
he was wholly unconscious of it himself, because he never realised
his natural charm, and indeed was unduly afraid of boring people by
his presence.

He was not exactly a hard worker, but he was singularly regular;
indeed, though he sometimes took a brief holiday after writing a
book, he seldom missed a day without writing some few pages. One of
the reasons why they paid so few visits was that he tended, as he
told me, to feel so much bored away from his work. It was at once
his occupation and his recreation. He was not one of those who
write fiercely and feverishly, and then fall into exhaustion; he
wrote cheerfully and temperately, and never appeared to feel the
strain. They lived quietly, but a good many friends came and went.
He much preferred to have a single quest, or a husband and wife, at
a time, and pursued his work quietly all through. He used to see
that one had all one could need, and then withdrew after tea-time,
not reappearing until dinner. His wife, it was evident, was devoted
to him with an almost passionate adoration. The reason why life