[Footnote 3:  “Verses for Children, and Songs for Music.”]

[Footnote 4:  “Brothers of Pity, and other Tales of Beasts and Men.”]

She invented names for the spots that we most frequented in our walks, such as “The Mermaid’s Ford,” and “St. Nicholas.”  The latter covered a space including several fields and a clear stream, and over this locality she certainly reigned supreme; our gathering of violets and cowslips, or of hips and haws for jam, and our digging of earth-nuts were limited by her orders.  I do not think she ever attempted to exercise her prerogative over the stream; I am sure that, whenever we caught sight of a dark tuft of slimy Batrachospermum in its clear depths, we plunged in to secure it for Mother, whether Julie or any other Naiad liked it or no!  But “the splendour in the grass and glory in the flower” that we found in “St. Nicholas” was very deep and real, thanks to all she wove around the spot for us.  Even in childhood she must have felt, and imparted to us, a great deal of what she put into the hearts of the children in “Our Field."[5] To me this story is one of the most beautiful of her compositions, and deeply characteristic of the strong power she possessed of drawing happiness from little things, in spite of the hindrances caused by weak health.  Her fountain of hope and thankfulness never ran dry.

[Footnote 5:  “A Great Emergency, and other Tales.”]

     Madam Liberality was accustomed to disappointment.

     From her earliest years it had been a family joke, that poor Madam
     Liberality was always in ill-luck’s way.

It is true that she was constantly planning; and, if one builds castles, one must expect a few loose stones about one’s ears now and then.  But, besides this, her little hopes were constantly being frustrated by Fate.

If the pigs or the hens got into the garden, Madam Liberality’s bed was sure to be laid waste before any one came to the rescue.  When a picnic or a tea-party was in store, if Madam Liberality did not catch cold, so as to hinder her from going, she was pretty sure to have a quinsy from fatigue or wet feet afterwards.  When she had a treat, she paid for the pleasurable excitement by a head-ache, just as when she ate sweet things they gave her toothache.

     But, if her luck was less than other people’s, her courage and good
     spirits were more than common.  She could think with pleasure about
     the treat when she had forgotten the head-ache.

One side of her face would look fairly cheerful when the other was obliterated by a flannel bag of hot camomile flowers, and the whole was redolent of every possible domestic remedy for toothache, from oil of cloves and creosote to a baked onion in the ear.  No sufferings abated her energy for fresh exploits, or quenched the hope that cold, and damp, and fatigue would not hurt her “this time.”