s, hopes that concerned himself alone, shrank to the
idlest trifling when he realised the immense debt due from him to his
son; no possible sacrifice could discharge it. He marvelled how people
could insist upon the duty of children to parents. But did not the
habit of thought ally itself naturally enough with that strange
religion which, under direst penalties, exacts from groaning and
travailing humanity a tribute of fear and love to the imagined Author
of its being?

With delight he followed every step in the growth of understanding; and
yet it was not all pleasure to watch the mind outgrowing its
simplicity. Intelligence that has learnt the meaning of a doubt
compares but sadly with the charm of untouched ingenuousness--that
exquisite moment (a moment, and no more) when simplest thought and
simplest word seek each other unconsciously, and blend in sweetest
music. At four years old Hughie had forgotten his primitive language.
The father regretted many a pretty turn of tentative speech, which he
was wont to hear with love's merriment. If a toy were lost, a little
voice might be heard saying, 'Where has that gone now _to_?' And when
it was found again--'There is _it_!' After a tumble one day, Hughie was
cautious in running. 'I shall fall down and break myself.' Then came
distinction between days of the week. 'On Sunday I do' so and so; 'on
Monday days I do' something else. He said, 'Do you remember?' and what
a pity it seemed when at last the dull grown-up word was substituted.
Never again, when rain was falling, would Hughie turn and plead,
'Father, tell the sun to come out!' Nor, when he saw the crescent moon
in daytime, would he ever grow troubled and exclaim, 'Someone has
broken it!'

It was the rule now that before his bedtime, seven o'clock, Hughie
spent an hour in the library, alone with his father. A golden hour,
sacred to memories of the world's own childhood. He brought with him
the book that was his evening's choice--Grimm, or Andersen, or AEsop.
Already he knew by heart a score of little poems, or passages of verse,
which Rolfe, disregarding the inept volumes known as children's
anthologies, chose with utmost care from his favourite singers, and
repeated till they were learnt. Stories from the Odyssey had come in of
late; but Polyphemus was a doubtful experiment--Hughie dreamt of him.
Great caution, too, was needful in the matter of pathos. On hearing for
the first time Andersen's tale of the Little Tin S