It warmed many a chilly nature into fructification; it healed many a scar, it brightened many a humble life, like that of Bertie Adams's hard-working, washerwoman mother, or the game-keeper's crippled child at Petworth or the newest, suburbanest little employe of _Fraser and Claridge's_ huge establishment in the Brompton Road.

It pulled straight the wayward life of some young subaltern, about to come a cropper, but who after a talk or two with that jolly Mrs.Armstrong took quite a different course and made a decent marriage.

It conjoined with many of the social activities for good of one who might have been her twin sister--Suzanne Feenix--only that Suzanne was twenty years older and perhaps an inch or two shorter.

Dear woman! My remembrance flashes a kiss to your astral cheek--which in reality I should never have dared to salute, so great was my awe of Colonel Armstrong's muscles--as, at any reasonable time before or after the birth of your last child in June, 1910, you stand in the hall of your sunny, eighteenth century house, with the gold and green glint of the Kensington garden behind you: saying with your glad eyes and bonny mouth "Come to our Suffrage Party?
_Such_ a lark! We've got Mrs.
Pankhurst here and the Police daren't raid us; they're so afraid of 'Army.' Of course he's away, but he knows _perfectly well_ what I'm doing.

He's _quite_ given in.