To return to October, 1852.  On the day of the funeral my elder brother and I were taken back to the house where my father lay dead, and while my brother went as chief mourner, poor little boy swamped in crape and miserable exceedingly, I sat in an upstairs room with my mother and her sisters; and still comes back to me her figure, seated on a sofa, with fixed white face and dull vacant eyes, counting the minutes till the funeral procession would have reached Kensal Green, and then following in mechanical fashion, prayer-book in hand, the service, stage by stage, until to my unspeakable terror, with the words, dully spoken, “It is all over”, she fell back fainting.  And here comes a curious psychological problem which has often puzzled me.  Some weeks later she resolved to go and see her husband’s grave.  A relative who had been present at the funeral volunteered to guide her to the spot, but lost his way in that wilderness of graves.  Another of the small party went off to find one of the officials and to enquire, and my mother said:  “If you will take me to the chapel where the first part of the service was read, I will find the grave”.  To humor her whim, he led her thither, and, looking round for a moment or two, she started from the chapel, followed the path along which the corpse had been borne, and was standing by the newly-made grave when the official arrived to point it out.  Her own explanation was that she had seen all the service; what is certain is, that she had never been to Kensal Green before, and that she walked steadily to the grave from the chapel.  Whether the spot had been carefully described to her, whether she had heard others talking of its position or not, we could never ascertain; she had no remembrance of any such description, and the matter always remained to us a problem.  But after the lapse of years a hundred little things may have been forgotten which unconsciously served as guides at the time.  She must have been, of course, at that time, in a state of abnormal nervous excitation, a state of which another proof was shortly afterwards given.  The youngest of our little family was a boy about three years younger than myself, a very beautiful child, blue-eyed and golden haired—­I have still a lock of his hair, of exquisite pale golden hue—­and the little lad was passionately devoted to his father.  He 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,