distress him out of all proportion. He would brood over such things,
make himself unhappy, and at the same time feel it his duty to correct
what he felt to be a dangerous tendency. He could not think lightly of
a trifle or deal with it lightly; and he would appeal, I now think, to
motives more exalted than the occasion justified. A little heedless
utterance would be met by him not by a half-humourous word, but by a
grave and solemn remonstrance. We feared his displeasure very much, but
we could never be quite sure what would provoke it. If he was in a
cheerful mood, he might pass over with a laugh or an ironical word what
in a sad or anxious mood would evoke an indignant and weighty censure. I
was much with him at this time, and was growing to understand him
better; but even so, I could hardly say that I was at ease in his
presence. I did not talk of the things that were in my mind, but of the
things which I thought would please him; and when he was pleased, his
delight was evident and richly rewarding.

But in these days he began to have a peculiar and touching affection for
Hugh, and hoped that he would prove the beloved companion of his age.
Hugh used to trot about with him, spudding up weeds from the lawn. He
used, when at home, to take Hugh's Latin lessons, and threw himself into
the congenial task of teaching with all his force and interest. Yet I
have often heard Hugh say that these lessons were seldom free from a
sense of strain. He never knew what he might not be expected to know or
to respond to with eager interest. My father had a habit, in teaching,
of over-emphasising minute details and nuances of words, insisting upon
derivations and tenses, packing into language a mass of suggestions and
associations which could never have entered into the mind of the writer.
Language ought to be treated sympathetically, as the not over-precise
expression of human emotion and wonder; but my father made it of a
half-scientific, half-fanciful analysis. This might prove suggestive and