some amusement, "She's funny, I've always
said that, but," she added, "I've known some I should say was funnier."

This opinion may be worth recording, as it was one of the highest
tributes to her character Henrietta ever received.

On the whole during those latter years she improved, and in the general
reformation of her character she raised the standard of her reading. She
confined herself in the mornings and afternoon to mildly scandalous
memoirs of Frenchwomen and biographies of Church dignitaries, keeping
her costume novels for the evening.

She often saw Evelyn, and they talked of the past, but they never
regained the almost heavenly intimacy of that night. They seldom met
without some disagreeableness from Henrietta, and she did not like the
boys, there was nothing of Evelyn in them, while they for their part
could not imagine why their mother cared for their aunt Henrietta. It
was a continual struggle for Evelyn not to be impatient with her; much
as she longed to, she could not keep on the high plane of devotion,
which had brought such happiness to both.

CHAPTER XIII

Henrietta died when she was sixty-three. Her father and stepmother were
long dead, also her second brother, whom none of the family had seen for
years. When her relations were sent for, it was very cold weather in
January, and Louie and Minna did not obey the summons. They deplored it
continually afterwards, and explained to one another how appalling the
wind had been, and what care they had to take for their children's sake,
and how Henrietta had frightened them so much the year before by sending
for them when there was no need, that they naturally could not be
expected to realize that this time it really was important.

William came, looking more benevolent than ever with his very becoming
white hair. Henrietta said that she thought it was the last time she
should see him, but he assured her it was just the cold which had pulled
her down a little, and she would be all right again as soon as the wind
changed. "It's wretched, knocks everybody up." He looked so hearty and
mundane that it almost seemed, when he was in the room, as if there
could not be such a thing as death.

They talked about the drought last summer, and William's son, who was a
planter in Ceylon, and the noise of the motor-buses in London, until
William said he must go for his train. He was allowing a quarter of an
hour too much time, for he was able to stay and ta