He grew up fearless and self-dependent, and never felt the want of amusement.  The garden and orchard supplied him a theatre for endless games and romps, sometimes with no other companion than his cousin and his dog, and sometimes with the few children of his own age whom he knew in the hamlet.  Very soon he forgot all about India; it only hung like a distant golden haze on the horizon of his memory.  When asked if he remembered it, he would say thoughtfully, that in dreams and at some other times, he saw a little child, with long curly hair, running about in a little garden, near a great river, in a place where the air was very bright.  But whether the little boy was himself or his brother Vernon, whom he had never seen, he couldn’t quite tell.

But above all, it was happy for Eric that his training was religious and enlightened.  With Mrs. Trevor and her daughter, religion was not a system but a habit—­not a theory, but a continued act of life.  All was simple, sweet, and unaffected about their charity and their devotions.  They loved God, and they did all the good they could to those around them.  The floating gossip and ill-nature of the little village never affected them; it melted away insensibly in the presence of their cultivated minds; and so friendship with them was a bond of union among all, and from the vicar to the dairyman every one loved and respected them, asked their counsel, and sought their sympathy.

They called themselves by no sectarian name, nor could they have told to what “party” they belonged.  They troubled themselves with no theories of education, but mingled gentle nurture with “wholesome neglect.”  There was nothing exotic or constrained in the growth of Eric’s character.  He was not one of your angelically good children at all, and knew none of the phrases of which infant prodigies are supposed to be so fond.  He had not been taught any distinction between “Sunday books” and “week-day” books, but no book had been put in his way that was not healthy and genuine in tone.  He had not been told that he might use his Noah’s ark on Sunday, because it was “a Sunday plaything,” while all other toys were on that day forbidden.  Of these things the Trevors thought little; they only saw that no child could be happy in enforced idleness or constrained employment; and so Eric grew up to love Sunday quite as well as any other day in the week, though, unlike your angelic children, he never professed to like it better.  But to be truthful, to be honest, to be kind, to be brave, these had been taught him, and he never quite forgot the lesson; nor amid the sorrows of after life did he ever quite lose the sense—­learnt at dear quiet Fairholm—­of a present loving God, of a tender and long-suffering Father.