been published, and crabbed was the writing, but though my mother
liked to have our letters read aloud to her, she read every one of
these herself, and would quote from them in her talk. Side by side
with the Carlyle letters, which show him in his most gracious
light, were many from his wife to a friend, and in one of these a
romantic adventure is described - I quote from memory, and it is a
poor memory compared to my mother's, which registered everything by
a method of her own: 'What might be the age of Bell Tibbits? Well,
she was born the week I bought the boiler, so she'll be one-and-
fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.' Mrs. Carlyle had got into the
train at a London station and was feeling very lonely, for the
journey to Scotland lay before her and no one had come to see her
off. Then, just as the train was starting, a man jumped into the
carriage, to her regret until she saw his face, when, behold, they
were old friends, and the last time they met (I forget how many
years before) he had asked her to be his wife. He was very nice,
and if I remember aright, saw her to her journey's end, though he
had intended to alight at some half-way place. I call this an
adventure, and I am sure it seemed to my mother to be the most
touching and memorable adventure that can come into a woman's life.
'You see he hadna forgot,' she would say proudly, as if this was a
compliment in which all her sex could share, and on her old tender
face shone some of the elation with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that
letter.

But there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made his
wife a glorious woman. 'As when?' I might inquire.

'When she keeked in at his study door and said to herself, "The
whole world is ringing with his fame, and he is my man!"'