It was perhaps because my father always began by disparaging her suggestions that (by the balancing action of some instinctive sense of justice) he almost always ended by adopting them, whether they were wise or foolish.  He came at last to listen very tolerantly when she dilated on my future greatness.

“And if he isn’t quite so good a farmer as Jem, it’s not as if he were the eldest, you know, my dear.  I’m sure we’ve much to be thankful for that dear Jem takes after you as he does.  But if Jack turns out a genius, which please God we may live to see and be proud of, he’ll make plenty of money, and he must live with Jem when we’re gone, and let Jem manage it for him, for clever people are never any good at taking care of what they get.  And when their families get too big for the old house, love, Jack must build, as he’ll be well able to afford to do, and Jem must let him have the land.  The Ladycroft would be as good as anywhere, and a pretty name for the house.  It would be a good thing to have some one at that end of the property too, and then the boys would always be together.”

Poor dear mother!  The kernel of her speech lay in the end of it—­“The boys would always be together.”  I am sure in her tender heart she blessed my bookish genius, which was to make wealth as well as fame, and so keep me “about the place,” and the home birds for ever in the nest.

I knew nothing of it then, of course; but at this time she used to turn my father’s footsteps towards the Ladycroft every Sunday, between the services, and never wearied of planning my house.

She was standing one day, her smooth brow knitted in perplexity, before the big pink thorn, and had stood so long absorbed in this brown study, that my father said, with a sly smile,

“Well, love, and where are you now?”

“In the dairy, my dear,” she answered quite gravely.  “The window is to the north of course, and I’m afraid the thorn must come down.”

My father laughed heartily.  He had some sense of humour, but my mother had none.  She was one of the sweetest-tempered women that ever lived, and never dreamed that any one was laughing at her.  I have heard my father say she lay awake that night, and when he asked her why she could not sleep he found she was fretting about the pink thorn.

“It looked so pretty to-day, my dear; and thorns are so bad to move!”

My father knew her too well to hope to console her by joking about it.  He said gravely:  “There’s plenty of time yet, love.  The boys are only just in trousers; and we may think of some way to spare it before we come to bricks and mortar.”

“I’ve thought of it every way, my dear, I’m afraid,” said my mother with a sigh.  But she had full confidence in my father—­a trouble shared with him was half cured, and she soon fell asleep.

She certainly had a vivid imagination, though it never was cultivated to literary ends.  Perhaps, after all, I inherited that idle fancy, those unsatisfied yearnings of my restless heart, from her!  Mental peculiarities are said to come from one’s mother.