dering about the garden of his house,
generally accompanied by one or other of his children. In later years,
at Boulogne, he would often have his youngest boy, "The Noble Plorn,"
trotting by his side. These two were constant companions in those days,
and after these walks my father would always have some funny anecdote to
tell us. And when years later the time came for the boy of his heart to
go out into the world, my father, after seeing him off, wrote: "Poor
Plorn has gone to Australia. It was a hard parting at the last. He
seemed to become once more my youngest and favorite little child as the
day drew near, and I did not think I could have been so shaken. These
are hard, hard things, but they might have to be done without means or
influence, and then they would be far harder. God bless him!"

When my father was arranging and rehearsing his readings from "Dombey,"
the death of "little Paul" caused him such real anguish, the reading
being so difficult to him, that he told us he could only master his
intense emotion by keeping the picture of Plorn, well, strong and hearty,
steadily before his eyes. We can see by the different child characters
in his books what a wonderful knowledge he had of children, and what a
wonderful and truly womanly sympathy he had with them in all their
childish joys and griefs. I can remember with us, his own children, how
kind, considerate and patient he always was. But we were never afraid to
go to him in any trouble, and never had a snub from him or a cross word
under any circumstances. He was always glad to give us "treats," as he
called them, and used to conceive all manner of those "treats" for us,
and if any favor had to be asked we were always sure of a favorable
answer. On these occasions my sister "Katie" was generally our
messenger, we others waiting outside the study door to hear the verdict.
She and I used to have delightful treats in those summer evenings,
driving up to Hampstead in the open carriage with him, our mother, and
"Auntie," {15} and getting out for a long walk through the lovely country
lanes, picking wild roses and other flowers, or walking hand in hand with
him listening to some story.

There never existed, I think, in all the world, a more thoroughly tidy or
methodical creature than was my father. He was tidy in every way--in his
mind, in his handsome and graceful person, in his work, in keeping his
writing table drawers, in his large correspondence, i