His misfortunes did not end here.  My step-sister Isabel—­a beautiful girl of seventeen, the only child of his first marriage—­had met him at Plymouth, nursed him to convalescence, and brought him home to Minden Cottage, to the garden which henceforward he tilled, but saw only through memory.  Since then she had married a young officer in the 52nd Regiment, a Lieutenant Archibald Plinlimmon; but, her husband having to depart at once for the Peninsula, she had remained with her father and tended him as before, until death took her—­as it had taken her mother—­in childbirth.  The babe did not survive her; and, to complete the sad story, her husband fell a few weeks later before Badajoz, while assaulting the Picurina Gate with fifty axemen of the Light Division.

Beneath these blows of fate my father did indeed bow his head, yet bravely.  From the day Isabel died his shoulders took a sensible stoop; but this was the sole evidence of the mortal wound he carried, unless you count that from the same day he put aside his “Aeneid,” and taught me no more from it, but spent his hours for the most part in meditation, often with a Bible open on his knee—­although his eyes could not read it.  Sally, our cook, told me one day that when the foolish midwife came and laid the child in his arms, not telling him that it was dead, he felt it over and broke forth in a terrible cry—­ his first and last protest.

In me—­the only child of his second marriage, as Isabel had been the only child of his first—­he appeared to have lost, and of a sudden, all interest.  While Isabel lived there had been reason for this, or excuse at least, for he had loved her mother passionately, whereas from mine he had separated within a day or two after marriage, having married her only because he was obliged—­or conceived himself obliged—­by honour.  Into this story I shall not go.  It was a sad one, and, strange to say, sadly creditable to both.  I do not remember my mother.  She died, having taken some pains to hide even my existence from her husband, who, nevertheless, conscientiously took up the burden.  A man more strongly conscientious never lived; and his sudden neglect of me had nothing to do with caprice, but came—­as I am now assured—­of some lesion of memory under the shock of my sister’s death.  As an unregenerate youngster I thought little of it at the time, beyond rejoicing to be free of my daily lesson in Virgil.

I can see my father now, seated within the summer-house by the filbert-tree at the end of the orchard—­his favourite haunt—­or standing in the doorway and drawing himself painfully erect, a giant of a man, to inhale the scent of his flowers or listen to his bees, or the voice of the stream which bounded our small domain.  I see him framed there, his head almost touching the lintel, his hands gripping the posts like a blind Samson’s, all too strong for the flimsy trelliswork.  He wore a brown holland suit in summer, in colder weather a fustian one of like colour, and at first glance you might mistake him for a Quaker.  His snow-white hair was gathered close beside the temples, back from a face of ineffable simplicity and goodness—­the face of a man at peace with God and all the world, yet marked with scars—­scars of bygone passions, cross-hatched and almost effaced by deeper scars of calamity.  As Miss Plinlimmon wrote in her album—­