inherent nobility and soundness of the nature, that in spite of her
curious Irish fondness for the vehement romantic sides of experience,
she did little harm, and much good. Her tongue might be over-ready
and her championships indiscreet, but her hands were helpful, and
her heart was true. There was something contagious in her enjoyment
of life, and with all her strong religious faith, the thought of
death, of any final pulse and silence in the whirr of the great
social machine was to her a thought of greater chill and horror
than to many a less brave and spiritual soul.

Till her boy was twelve years old, however, she had lived for him
first and foremost. She had taught him, played with him, learnt
with him, communicating to him through all his lessons her own fire
and eagerness to a degree which every now and then taxed the physical
powers of the child. Whenever the signs of strain appeared, however,
the mother would be overtaken by a fit of repentant watchfulness,
and for days together Robert would find her the most fascinating
playmate, storyteller, and romp; and forget all his precocious
interest in history or vulgar fractions. In after years when Robert
looked back upon his childhood, he was often reminded of the stories
of Goethe's bringing-up. He could recall exactly the same scenes
as Goethe describes,--mother and child sitting together in the
gloaming, the mother's dark eyes dancing with fun or kindling with
dramatic fire, as she carried an imaginary hero or heroine through
a series of the raciest adventures; the child all eagerness and
sympathy, now clapping his little hands at the fall of the giant,
or the defeat of the sorcerer, and now arguing and suggesting in
ways which gave perpetually fresh stimulus to the mother's
inventiveness. He could see her dressing up with him on wet days,
reciting King Henry to his Prince Hal, or Prospero to his Ariel,