excessive disquiet; for the young life seemed to him so delicate a thing that any touch of pain might wither it away.  Because of the unutterable anguish in the thought, he had often forced himself to front the possibility of Hughie’s death, and had even brought himself to feel that in truth it would be no reason for sorrow; how much better to fall asleep in playtime, and wake no more, than to outlive the happiness and innocence which pass for ever with childhood.  And when the fear of life lay heaviest upon him, he found solace in remembering that after no great lapse of time he and those he loved would have vanished from the earth, would be as though they had not been at all; every pang and woe awaiting them suffered and forgotten; the best and the worst gone by for ever; the brief flicker of troubled light quenched in eternal oblivion.  It was Harvey Rolfe’s best substitute for the faith and hope of the old world.

He liked to feel the soft little hand clasping his own fingers, so big and coarse in comparison, and happily so strong.  For in the child’s weakness he felt an infinite pathos; a being so entirely helpless, so utterly dependent upon others’ love, standing there amid a world of cruelties, smiling and trustful.  All his heart went forth in the desire to protect and cherish.  Nothing else seemed of moment beside this one duty, which was also the purest joy.  The word ‘father’ however sweet to his ear, had at times given him a thrill of awe; spoken by childish lips, did it mean less than ‘God’?  He was the giver of life, and for that dread gift must hold himself responsible.  A man in his agony may call upon some unseen power, but the heavens are mute; can a father turn away in heedlessness if the eyes of his child reproach him?  All pleasures, aims, hopes that concerned himself -alone, shrank to the idlest trifling when he realised the immense debt due from him to his son; no possible sacrifice could discharge it.  He marvelled how people could insist upon the duty of children to parents.  But did not the habit of thought ally itself naturally enough with that strange religion which, under direst penalties, exacts from groaning and travailing humanity a tribute of fear and love to the imagined Author of its being?

With delight he followed every step in the growth of understanding; and yet it was not all pleasure to watch the mind outgrowing its simplicity.  Intelligence that has learnt the meaning of a doubt compares but sadly with the charm of untouched ingenuousness —­ that exquisite moment (a moment, and no more) when simplest thought and simplest word seek each other unconsciously, and blend in sweetest music.  At four years old Hughie had forgotten his primitive language.  The father regretted many a pretty turn of tentative speech, which he was wont to hear with love’s merriment.  If a toy were lost, a little voice might be heard saying, ‘Where has that gone now to?’ And when it was found again —­ ’There is it!’