Tennant, that most loyal of friends, stands out as one who, hardly less
than I, used to look on 76, Sloane Street, as a home. There is no need to
bear witness to the happiness of that home. _The Book of the Spiritual
Life_, in which are collected my aunt's last essays, contains also the
Memoir of her written by her husband, and the spirit which breathes
through those pages bears perfect testimony to an abiding love.

The atmosphere of the house was one of work, and the impression left upon
the mind was that no life was truly lived unless it was largely dedicated
to public service. To the labours of his wife, a "Benedictine, working
always and everywhere," Sir Charles bears testimony. But what of his own
labours? "Nothing will ever come before my work," were his initial words
to me in the days when I first became their secretary. Through the years
realization of this fact became complete, so that, towards the last,
remonstrances at his ceaseless labour were made with hopeless hearts; we
knew he would not purchase length of life by the abatement of one jot of
his energy. He did not expect long life, and death was ever without terror
for him. For years he anticipated a heart seizure, so that in the complete
ordering of his days he lived each one as if it were his last.

The house was a fine school, for in it no waste of force was permitted. He
had drilled himself to the suppression of emotion, and he would not
tolerate it in those who worked with him except as an inspiration to
action. "Keep your tears for your speeches, so that you make others act;
leave off crying and think what you can do," was the characteristic rebuke
bestowed upon one of us who had reported a case of acute industrial
suffering. He never indulged in rhetoric or talked of first principles,
and one divined from chance words of encouragement the deep feeling and
passion for justice which formed the inspiration of his work.