a friendly little memoir of
him, which I have been sent, I find the following passage: "In his early
childhood, when reason was just beginning to ponder over the meaning of
things, he was so won to enthusiastic admiration of the heroes and
heroines of the Catholic Church that he decided he would probe for
himself the Catholic claims, and the child would say to the father,
'Father, if there be such a sacrament as Penance, can I go?' And the
good Archbishop, being evasive in his answers, the young boy found
himself emerging more and more in a woeful Nemesis of faith." It would
be literally _impossible_, I think, to construct a story less
characteristic both of Hugh's own attitude of mind as well as of the
atmosphere of our family and household life than this!

He was always very sensitive to pain and discomfort. On one occasion,
when his hair was going to be cut, he said to my mother: "Mayn't I have
chloroform for it?"

And my mother has described to me a journey which she once took with him
abroad when he was a small boy. He was very ill on the crossing, and
they had only just time to catch the train. She had some luncheon with
her, but he said that the very mention of food made him sick. She
suggested that she should sit at the far end of the carriage and eat her
own lunch, while he shut his eyes; but he said that the mere sound of
crumpled paper made him ill, and then that the very idea that there was
food in the carriage upset him; so that my mother had to get out on the
first stop and bolt her food on the platform.

One feat of Hugh's I well remember. Sir James McGarel Hogg, afterwards
Lord Magheramorne, was at the time member for Truro. He was a stately
and kindly old gentleman, pale-faced and white-bearded, with formal and
dignified manners. He was lunching with us one day, and gave his arm to
my mother to conduct her to the dining-room. Hugh, for some reason best
known to himself, selected that day to secrete himself in the
dining-room beforehand, and burst out upon Sir James with a wild howl,
intended to create consternation. Neither then nor ever was he
embarrassed by inconvenient shyness.

The Bishop's house at Truro, Lis Escop, had been the rectory of the rich
living of Kenwyn; it was bought for the see and added to. It was a
charming house about a mile out of Truro above a sequestered valley,
with a far-off view of the little town lying among hills, with the smoke
going up, and the gleaming waters of the