who were undeniably fatiguing, because they overcame one like a whirlwind.  But with Father Payne it always seemed as though he put wind into one’s sails, but left one to steer one’s own course.  He did not thwart or deflect, or even direct:  he simply multiplied one’s own energy.  I never had the sensation with him of suppressing any thought in my mind, or of saying to myself, “The Father won’t care about that.”  He always did care, and I used to feel that he was glad to be inquired of, glad to have his own thoughts diverted, glad to be of use.  He never nagged; or found petty fault, or “chivied” you, as the boys say.  If you asked him a question, or asked him to stroll or walk, you always felt that he was delighted, that it was the one thing he enjoyed.  He liked to have childish secrets.  He and I had several little caches in the holes of trees, or the chinks of buildings, where we concealed small coins or curious stones on our walks, and at a later date revisited them.  We were frankly silly about certain things.  He and I had some imaginary personages—­Dr. Waddilove, supposed to be a rich beneficed clergyman of Tory views; Mr. McTurk, a matter-of-fact Scotsman; Henry Bland, a retired schoolmaster with copious stores of information; and others—­and we used often to discourse in character.  But he always knew when to stop.  He would say to me suddenly:  “Dr. Waddilove said to me yesterday that he never argued with atheists or radicals, because they always came round in the end.”  Or he would say, in Henry Bland’s flute-like tones:  “Your mention of Robert Browning induces me to relate an anecdote, which I think may prove not wholly uninteresting to you.”  At times we used to tell long stories on our walks, stopping short in the middle of a sentence, when the other had instantly to continue the narrative.  I do not mean that the wit was very choice or the humour at all remarkable—­it would not bear being written down—­but it amused us both.  “Come, what shall we do to-day?” I can hear him say.  “Dr. Waddilove and Mr. Bland might have a walk and discuss the signs of the times?” And then the ridiculous dialogue would begin.

That was the delightful thing about him, that he was always ready to fall in with a mood, always light of touch and gay.  He could be tender and sympathetic, as well as incisive and sensible if it was needed; but he was never either contradictory or severe or improving.  He would sometimes pull himself up and say:  “Here, we must be business-like,” but he was never reproachful or grieved or shocked by what we said to him.  He could be decisive, stern, abrupt, if it was really needed.  But his most pungent reproofs were inflicted by a blank silence, which was one of the most appalling things to encounter.  He generally began to speak again a few moments later, on a totally different subject, while any such sign of displeasure was extremely rare.  He never under any circumstances reminded anyone of his generosity, or the trouble he had taken, or the favours he had conferred, while he would often remind one of some trifling kindness done to him.  “I often remember how good you were about those accounts, old boy!  I should never have got through without you!”