She gave herself up to a sensual delight in the combinations of words.

She sought them in the pages of her favorite authors.

She made them for herself on scraps of paper, and rolled them on her tongue when there seemed no occasion for such eloquence.

She was upheld in these excursions by the certainty that no language could outdo the splendor of her father's memory, and although her efforts did not notably further the end of his biography, she was under the impression of living more in his shade at such times than at others.

No one can escape the power of language, let alone those of English birth brought up from childhood, as Mrs.Hilbery had been, to disport themselves now in the Saxon plainness, now in the Latin splendor of the tongue, and stored with memories, as she was, of old poets exuberating in an infinity of vocables.