at the door, indeed in full possession. He was not; he strode in the van
with the youngest.

Yet he felt, perhaps, the void time had wrought in the circle of his
friends. He held the fort silently, while the long scythe cut another
swathe very near him. He heard that his friend, James Anthony Froude, who
had been lying ill in Devonshire, was steadily losing strength.

'I have made inquiries about him, poor fellow,' he murmured, 'but now I
must telegraph for the latest particulars. He and I are old companions,
and I have liking and admiration for him. When he visited me at my island
of Kawau, off the New Zealand coast, we had a capital while together. He
wanted to ask me, if I approved the manner in which he had written
Carlyle's life, a subject that brought him a good deal of criticism. My
reply was that I believed Carlyle would have wished to be presented just
as he was; not a half picture, but complete, for that would ultimately
make him appear all the greater.'

Somewhat before his illness, Froude published a book, and the London
daily paper which Sir George Grey took in, had a handsome review of it.
'I'll send the cutting to Froude,' he declared; 'it will do him good to
know that his latest writings are thoroughly appreciated.' Within a few
days, he had news from Devonshire that Froude had been able to have part
of the article read to him, and that he was gratified by it. Sir George
was happy at his little service having carried so well, and mentioned a
larger one which Froude had wished to render him.

'Hardly was I in England this time,' the history of it ran, 'than I had a
letter from Froude, intimating how glad he would be to put my name
forward for that high distinction, the Oxford honorary degree. This gave