was always a delicate boy, and had I suppose, therefore, been specially
petted, and he fretted continually for "papa". It is probable that the
consumptive taint had touched him, for he pined steadily away, with no
marked disease, during the winter months. One morning my mother calmly
stated: "Alf is going to die". It was in vain that it was urged on her
that with the spring strength would return to the child. "No", she
persisted. "He was lying asleep in my arms last night, and William came
to me and said that he wanted Alf with him, but that I might keep the
other two." She had in her a strong strain of Celtic superstition, and
thoroughly believed that this "vision"--a most natural dream under the
circumstances--was a direct "warning", and that her husband had come to
her to tell her of her approaching loss. This belief was, in her eyes,
thoroughly justified by the little fellow's death in the following March,
calling to the end for "Papa! papa!" My brother and I were allowed to see
him just before he was placed in his coffin; I can see him still, so
white and beautiful, with a black spot in the middle of the fair waxen
forehead, and I remember the deadly cold which startled me when I was
told to kiss my little brother. It was the first time that I had touched
Death. That black spot made a curious impression on me, and long
afterwards, asking what had caused it, I was told that at the moment
after his death my mother had passionately kissed the baby brow. Pathetic
thought, that the mother's kiss of farewell should have been marked by
the first sign of corruption on the child's face.

And now began my mother's time of struggle and of anxiety. Hitherto,
since her marriage, she had known no money troubles, for her husband was
earning a good income; he was apparently vigorous and well: no thought of
anxiety clouded their future. When he died, he believed that he left his
wife and children safe, at least, from pecuniary distress. It was not so.
I know nothing of the details, but the outcome of all was that nothing