oy, indoors or out, and it rejoiced him to know that his love
was returned in full measure; for Hughie would at any time abandon
other amusements to be with his father. In these winter months, when by
rare chance there came a fine Saturday or Sunday, they went off
together to Kew or Richmond, and found endless matter for talk,
delightful to both of them. Hughie, now four years old, was well grown,
and could walk two or three miles without weariness. He had no colour
in his cheeks, and showed the nervous tendencies which were to be
expected in a child of such parentage, but on the whole his health gave
no cause for uneasiness. If anything chanced to ail him, Harvey
suffered an excessive disquiet; for the young life seemed to him so
delicate a thing that any touch of pain might wither it away. Because
of the unutterable anguish in the thought, he had often forced himself
to front the possibility of Hughie's death, and had even brought
himself to feel that in truth it would be no reason for sorrow; how
much better to fall asleep in playtime, and wake no more, than to
outlive the happiness and innocence which pass for ever with childhood.
And when the fear of life lay heaviest upon him, he found solace in
remembering that after no great lapse of time he and those he loved
would have vanished from the earth, would be as though they had not
been at all; every pang and woe awaiting them suffered and forgotten;
the best and the worst gone by for ever; the brief flicker of troubled
light quenched in eternal oblivion. It was Harvey Rolfe's best
substitute for the faith and hope of the old world.

He liked to feel the soft little hand clasping his own fingers, so big
and coarse in comparison, and happily so strong. For in the child's
weakness he felt an infinite pathos; a being so entirely helpless, so
utterly dependent upon others' love, standing there amid a world of
cruelties, smiling and trustful. All his heart went forth in the desire
to protect and cherish. Nothing else seemed of moment beside this one
duty, which was also the purest joy. The word 'father' however sweet to
his ear, had at times given him a thrill of awe; spoken by childish
lips, did it mean less than 'God'? He was the giver of life, and for
that dread gift must hold himself responsible. A man in his agony may
call upon some unseen power, but the heavens are mute; can a father
turn away in heedlessness if the eyes of his child reproach him? All
pleasures, aim