affection was returned with interest as soon as the shyness consequent on
his somewhat gruff manner was overcome. He used to enjoy drawing us out,
and would laugh heartily at our somewhat old-fashioned remarks and
observations, at which we used to grow very indignant, for we were
decidedly touchy when our dignity was at stake. He had nicknamed me
Charlotte Corday, for, after a course of Greek and Roman history, studied
in Plutarch and Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar," I had plunged into the
French Revolution, glorying in its heroisms and audacity, and it had
become a favourite amusement with all three of us to enact scenes drawn
from its history, and to recite aloud, with great emphasis if little art,
revolutionary poetry. The old professor loved to tease me by abusing my
favourite heroes; and when he had at last roused me to a vigorous
assertion of revolutionary sentiments, he would turn to my father and say,
"There's a little spitfire for you; you will have to keep a look-out or
she will be making bombs soon and blowing us all up," at which my father
would smile complacently.

Our father was very charitable. He did not like to be bothered or
disturbed, but he would willingly give a little assistance when asked, and
the result was that our door was always besieged by beggars of various
nationalities, Spaniards and Italians forming the chief contingent.
Generally they confined themselves to sending in notes, which used to be
returned with a shilling or half-crown as the case might be, but sometimes
one would insist on a personal interview. I remember one wild-looking
Hungarian, whose flowing locks were crowned by a sort of horse's
sun-bonnet, who used to rush round on one of those obsolete bicycles,
consisting of an enormously high wheel on the top of which he was perched,
and a tiny little back one. He was generally pursued by a crowd of hooting
boys, advising him to "get 'is 'air cut," and inquiring, "Where did you
get that 'at?" He used to insist on seeing my father; but the help he