this we were ready and anxious to work. A new interest was thus brought
into our lives, which, in my case, soon became all-absorbing. I was always
begging my brother to bring me home fresh books. The driest volumes of
political economy, the most indigestible of philosophical treatises,
nothing came amiss. From these I passed on to more modern works. Raymond
had made friends with a student who was a professed socialist and through
him he came into possession of a number of pamphlets and papers, all of
which I devoured eagerly, and some of which made a lasting impression on
my mind. Krapotkin's "Appeal to the Young" was of this number. I remember
in my enthusiasm reading it aloud to my sister Caroline, who, however,
took scant interest in such matters, and who tried, but in vain, to put a
damper on my enthusiasm.

I was always fond of scribbling, and the outcome of all this reading was
that I, too, flew to pen and paper. I used to read my papers to Raymond on
those rare occasions when I fancied I had not done so much amiss. They
would provide the material for an evening's conversation, then I would
toss them aside and think no more about them. One day, however, Raymond
brought his Socialist friend home with him. It seems they had talked about
me and my all-absorbing interest in social subjects. Hughes, my brother's
friend, had been surprised to hear from Raymond that I knew no socialists
in the flesh, and that all my hero-worship was laid before the altar of
mental abstractions, of my own creation for the most part.

Great was my excitement when Raymond told me that I might expect him and
his friend, of whom I had heard so much, to turn up together one Sunday
evening. So great was my ignorance of the world, so wild my enthusiasm,
that I imagined every socialist as a hero, willing to throw away his life
at a moment's notice on behalf of the "Cause." I had had no experience of
the petty internal strifes, of the jealousies and human frailties which a