and thoroughly believed that this “vision”—­a most natural dream under the circumstances—­was a direct “warning”, and that her husband had come to her to tell her of her approaching loss.  This belief was, in her eyes, thoroughly justified by the little fellow’s death in the following March, calling to the end for “Papa! papa!” My brother and I were allowed to see him just before he was placed in his coffin; I can see him still, so white and beautiful, with a black spot in the middle of the fair waxen forehead, and I remember the deadly cold which startled me when I was told to kiss my little brother.  It was the first time that I had touched Death.  That black spot made a curious impression on me, and long afterwards, asking what had caused it, I was told that at the moment after his death my mother had passionately kissed the baby brow.  Pathetic thought, that the mother’s kiss of farewell should have been marked by the first sign of corruption on the child’s face.

And now began my mother’s time of struggle and of anxiety.  Hitherto, since her marriage, she had known no money troubles, for her husband was earning a good income; he was apparently vigorous and well:  no thought of anxiety clouded their future.  When he died, he believed that he left his wife and children safe, at least, from pecuniary distress.  It was not so.  I know nothing of the details, but the outcome of all was that nothing was left for the widow and children, save a trifle of ready money.  The resolve to which, my mother came was characteristic.  Two of her husband’s relatives, Western and Sir William Wood, offered to educate her son at a good city school, and to start him in commercial life, using their great city influence to push him forward.  But the young lad’s father and mother had talked of a different future for their eldest boy; he was to go to a public school, and then to the University, and was to enter one of the “learned professions”—­to take orders, the mother wished; to go to the Bar, the father hoped.  On his death-bed there was nothing more earnestly urged by my father than that Harry should receive the best possible education, and the widow was resolute to fulfil that last wish.  In her eyes, a city school was not “the best possible education”, and the Irish pride rebelled against the idea of her son not being “a University man”.  Many were the lectures poured out on the young widow’s head about her “foolish pride”, especially by the female members of the Wood family; and her persistence in her own way caused a considerable alienation between herself and them.  But Western and William, though half-disapproving, remained her friends, and lent many a helping hand to her in her first difficult struggles.  After much cogitation, she resolved that the boy should be educated at Harrow, where the fees are comparatively low to lads living in the town, and that he should go thence to Cambridge or to Oxford, as his tastes should direct.  A bold scheme for a penniless widow, but carried out to the letter; for never dwelt in a delicate body a more resolute mind and will than that of my dear mother.