mother would not hear of it, for she and I scarcely ever left each other; my love for her was an idolatry, hers for me a devotion. (A foolish little story, about which I was unmercifully teased for years, marked that absolute idolatry of her, which has not yet faded from my heart.  In tenderest rallying one day of the child who trotted after her everywhere, content to sit, or stand, or wait, if only she might touch hand or dress of “mamma,” she said:  “Little one” (the name by which she always called me), “if you cling to mamma in this way, I must really get a string and tie you to my apron, and how will you like that?” “O mamma, darling,” came the fervent answer, “do let it be in a knot.”  And, indeed, the tie of love between us was so tightly knotted that nothing ever loosened it till the sword of Death cut that which pain and trouble never availed to slacken in the slightest degree.) But it was urged upon her that the advantages of education offered were such as no money could purchase for me; that it would be a disadvantage for me to grow up in a houseful of boys—­and, in truth, I was as good a cricketer and climber as the best of them—­that my mother would soon be obliged to send me to school, unless she accepted an offer which gave me every advantage of school without its disadvantages.  At last she yielded, and it was decided that Miss Marryat, on returning home, should take me with her.

Miss Marryat—­the favourite sister of Captain Marryat, the famous novelist—­was a maiden lady of large means.  She had nursed her brother through the illness that ended in his death, and had been living with her mother at Wimbledon Park.  On her mother’s death she looked round for work which would make her useful in the world, and finding that one of her brothers had a large family of girls, she offered to take charge of one of them, and to educate her thoroughly.  Chancing to come to Harrow, my good fortune threw me in her way, and she took a fancy to me and thought she would like to teach two little girls rather than one.  Hence her offer to my mother.

Miss Marryat had a perfect genius for teaching, and took in it the greatest delight.  From time to time she added another child to our party, sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl.  At first, with Amy Marryat and myself, there was a little boy, Walter Powys, son of a clergyman with a large family, and him she trained for some years, and then sent him on to school admirably prepared.  She chose “her children”—­as she loved to call us—­in very definite fashion.  Each must be gently born and gently trained, but in such position that the education freely given should be a relief and aid to a slender parental purse.  It was her delight to seek out and aid those on whom poverty presses most heavily, when the need for education for the children weighs on the proud and the poor.  “Auntie” we all called her, for she thought “Miss Marryat” seemed too cold and stiff.  She taught us everything herself except music, and for this she had a master, practising us in composition, in recitation, in reading aloud English and French, and later, German, devoting herself to training us in the soundest, most thorough fashion.  No words of mine can tell how much I owe her, not only of knowledge, but of that love of knowledge which has remained with me ever since as a constant spur to study.