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 closely packed houses—the fainting men and women—the rows upon rows of intent faces—held spellbound by the magic of her genius. It was as a dream when one awaketh. But she had her compensations—she had the love of her husband and children, she had the esteem and affection of hosts of friends, and, after all, fame to a woman is but as a "royal mourning in purple" for happiness, and can never satisfy the heart. Lady Becher died in 1872 at the great age of eighty-one.