ay, comradeless and
forlorn. I have seen him from the windows. She got him from Germany. He
has tall ears and looks exactly like a wolf. He was educated in Germany,
and knows no language but the German. Jean gave him no orders save
in that tongue. And so when the burglar-alarm made a fierce clamor at
midnight a fortnight ago, the butler, who is French and knows no German,
tried in vain to interest the dog in the supposed burglar. Jean wrote
me, to Bermuda, about the incident. It was the last letter I was ever to
receive from her bright head and her competent hand. The dog will not be
neglected.

There was never a kinder heart than Jean's. From her childhood up she
always spent the most of her allowance on charities of one kind or
another. After she became secretary and had her income doubled she spent
her money upon these things with a free hand. Mine too, I am glad and
grateful to say.

She was a loyal friend to all animals, and she loved them all, birds,
beasts, and everything--even snakes--an inheritance from me. She knew
all the birds; she was high up in that lore. She became a member of
various humane societies when she was still a little girl--both here and
abroad--and she remained an active member to the last. She founded two
or three societies for the protection of animals, here and in Europe.

She was an embarrassing secretary, for she fished my correspondence out
of the waste-basket and answered the letters. She thought all letters
deserved the courtesy of an answer. Her mother brought her up in that
kindly error.

She could write a good letter, and was swift with her pen. She had but
an indifferent ear music, but her tongue took to languages with an easy
facility. She never allowed her Italian, French, and German to get rusty
through neglect.

The telegrams of sympathy are flowing in, from far and wide, now, just
as they did in Italy five years and a half ago, when this child's mother
laid down her blameless life. They cannot heal the hurt, but they take
away some of the pain. When Jean and I kissed hands and parted at
my door last, how little did we imagine that in twenty-two hours the
telegraph would be bringing words like these:

"From the bottom of our hearts we send out sympathy, dearest of
friends."

For many and many a day to come, wherever I go in this house,
remembrancers of Jean will mutely speak to me of her. Who can count the
number of them?

She was in exile two years with the hope of