My mother's only living sister Elizabeth, who it will be remembered left London and came to Down in 1868, had had a serious illness in the autumn of 1879. From this she never entirely recovered, and died on November 7th, 1880, at the age of 87. Her little bent figure had been a familiar sight as she came into the drawing-room leaning on her stick and followed by her dog Tony. The first question would always be, “Where is Emma?” My mother would then put by whatever she was doing in order to go to her. This was sometimes difficult, but she never let any sense of hurry appear and was always ready to give her a warm and equable welcome. She shared in all her interests and made constant attempts to protect her from the beggars and impostors who beset her to the end of her life. This devotion and care never failed in the twelve years aunt Elizabeth lived at Down.

I think that we none of us felt intimate or quite at ease with our aunt. There was a curious film of reserve, even with my sister Bessy, who was most faithful and regular in reading to her and doing all she could to make her life happier and less monotonous.