affection.

I spent some strange solitary days at Hare Street in the week which
followed, going over from Cambridge and returning, working through
papers and letters. There were all Hugh's manuscripts and notes, his
books of sermons, all the written evidences of his ceaseless energy. It
was an astonishing record of diligence and patient effort. It seemed
impossible to believe that in a life of perpetual travelling and endless
engagements he yet had been able to accomplish all this mass of work.
His correspondence too--though he had evidently destroyed all private
spiritual confidences--was of wide and varied range, and it was
difficult to grasp that it yet represented the work of so comparatively
few years. The accumulation also of little, unknown, unnamed gifts was
very great, while the letters of grief and sympathy which I received
from friends of his, whose very names were unknown to me, showed how
intricate and wide his personal relations had been. And yet he had
carried all this burden very lightly and easily. I realised how
wonderful his power must have been of storing away in his mind the
secrets of many hearts, always ready to serve them, and yet able to
concentrate himself upon any work of his own.

In his directions he spoke of his great desire to keep his house and
chapel as much as possible in their present state. "I have spent an
immense amount of time and care on these things," he said. It seemed
that he had nearly realised his wish, by careful economy, to live at
Hare Street quietly and without anxiety, even if his powers had failed
him; and it was strange to walk as I did, one day when I had nearly
finished my task, round about the whole garden, which had been so
tangled and weed-choked a wilderness, and the house at first so ruinous
and bare, and to realise that it was all complete and perfect, a setting