of death, and I never liked her saying this, but never believed it.
I was travelling from 6.30 that morning, and arrived at Lytham about 8 p.m.,when I was met at the station by my friend, with a telegram in her hand, saying, "My dear, I have very sad news for you." And I answered, "Then it was dear Med." And she said, "Oh, I am so glad you were prepared. We feared from the telegram it would be such an awful shock to you." I answered, "I was not prepared, only I know it all now."
I took the first train in the next morning to Malvern Wells, where we were living, and at that station was met and told my dear nurse had died at three. I said, "No, it was later." On arriving at the house my sister said she had looked at the watch, and the hands were between five and ten minutes past three. It was seven minutes past three when I looked at my watch on that morning.
The day before she had been very well, and my sisters had taken her for a drive round Upton-on-Severn, but she was constantly talking of me, and saying, "I am not happy about Etta. She is not well; I want to see her."
I had not said in any letters that I was not well, but I had not been very well.
She was the dearest and truest friend I have ever had, or ever can have. She was my sisters' and my nurse, and had been in my father's service before I was born. . . .
In a letter to Mr. Myers, enclosing the account, Mrs. Knight writes:
. . . I was so afraid of imagining or forgetting, that the day I arrived home I wrote the bare facts, which I have copied for you. I have simply copied down what I wrote.
Mrs. Knight adds that she had no knowledge of
