The paradox between this unquestionable sanctification by faith and my equally unquestionable naughtiness, occupied my Father greatly at this time.  He made it a frequent subject of intercession at family prayers, not caring to hide from the servants misdemeanours of mine, which he spread out with a melancholy unction before the Lord.  He cultivated the belief that all my little ailments, all my aches and pains, were sent to correct my faults.  He carried this persuasion very far, even putting this exhortation before, instead of after, an instant relief of my sufferings.  If I burned my finger with a sulphur match, or pinched the end of my nose in the door (to mention but two sorrows that recur to my memory), my Father would solemnly ejaculate:  ‘Oh may these afflictions be much sanctified to him!’ before offering any remedy for my pain.  So that I almost longed, under the pressure of these pangs, to be a godless child, who had never known the privileges of saving grace, since I argued that such a child would be subjected to none of the sufferings which seemed to assail my path.

What the ideas or conduct of ‘another child’ might be I had, however, at this time no idea, for, strange as it may sound, I had not, until my tenth year was far advanced, made acquaintance with any such creature.  The ‘saints’ had children, but I was not called upon to cultivate their company, and I had not the slightest wish to do so.  But early in 1859 I was allowed, at last, to associate with a child of my own age.  I do not recall that this permission gave me any rapture; I accepted it philosophically but without that delighted eagerness which I might have been expected to show.  My earliest companion, then, was a little boy of almost exactly my own age.  His name was Benny, which no doubt was short for Benjamin.  His surname was Jeffries; his mother—­I think he had no father—­was a solemn and shadowy lady of means who lived in a villa, which was older and much larger than ours, on the opposite side of the road.  Going to ‘play with Benny’ involved a small public excursion, and this I was now allowed to make by myself—­an immense source of self-respect.

Everything in my little memories seems to run askew; obviously I ought to have been extremely stirred and broadened by this earliest association with a boy of my own age!  Yet I cannot truly say that it was so.  Benny’s mother possessed what seemed to me a vast domain, with lawns winding among broad shrubberies, and a kitchen-garden, with aged fruit-trees in it.  The ripeness of this place, mossed and leafy, was gratifying to my senses, on which the rawness of our own bald garden jarred.  There was an old brick wall between the two divisions, upon which it was possible for us to climb up, and from this we gained Pisgah-views which were a prodigious pleasure.  But I had not the faintest idea how to ‘play’; I had never learned, had never heard of any ‘games’.  I think Benny must have lacked initiative almost as much as I did.  We walked about, and shook the bushes, and climbed along the wall; I think that was almost all we ever did do.  And, sadly enough, I cannot recover a phrase from Benny’s lips, nor an action, nor a gesture, although I remember quite clearly how some grown-up people of that time looked, and the very words they said.