For some years a young friend, about half her own age, Mr. William Ashmead-Bartlett, had assisted her in dispensing her charities, and in other financial matters.  At one time he went to Turkey, at her request, using wisely the funds committed to his trust.  Baroness Coutts had refused many offers of marriage, but she finally desired to bestow her hand upon this young but congenial man.  On February 12, 1881, they were wedded in Christ Church, Piccadilly.  Her husband took the name of Mr. Burdett-Coutts Bartlett, and has since become a capable member of Parliament.  The marriage proved a happy one.

The final years of the Baroness’ long, useful life were rather secluded, being spent at her London residence, or at her delightful country place near Highgate, where she formerly entertained largely.

On Christmas Eve, in 1906, she became ill of bronchitis, and though her wonderful vitality led her to revive somewhat, she finally succumbed on December 30, at the age of ninety-two.  She was greatly beloved from the highest to the humblest citizens.  Queen Alexandra sent repeated inquiries and messages.  King Edward once said that he regarded the Baroness, after his mother, as the most remarkable woman in England.  Her life was a link with the past, as it began during the reign of Emperor Napoleon I, and witnessed the reigns of five British sovereigns.  Throughout it was spent in doing good.

JEAN INGELOW.

[Illustration:  JEAN INGELOW.]

The same friend who had given me Mrs. Browning’s five volumes in blue and gold, came one day with a dainty volume just published by Roberts Brothers, of Boston.  They had found a new poet, and one possessing a beautiful name.  Possibly it was a nom de plume, for who had heard any real name so musical as that of Jean Ingelow?

I took the volume down by the quiet stream that flows below Amherst College, and day after day, under a grand old tree, read some of the most musical words, wedded to as pure thought as our century has produced.

The world was just beginning to know The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire.  Eyes were dimming as they read,—­

  “I looked without, and lo! my sonne
     Came riding downe with might and main: 
   He raised a shout as he drew on,
     Till all the welkin rang again,
  ‘Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!’
     (A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath
     Than my sonne’s wife Elizabeth.)

  “’The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,
     The rising tide comes on apace,
    And boats adrift in yonder towne
     Go sailing uppe the market-place.’ 
    He shook as one who looks on death: 
     ‘God save you, mother!’ straight he saith;
     ‘Where is my wife, Elizabeth?’”

And then the waters laid her body at his very door, and the sweet voice that called, “Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!” was stilled forever.