The Scottish Sabbath still held its own in my youth; and when I heard that Ribblesdale and Charty played lawn tennis on Sunday after they were married, I felt very unhappy.  We had a few Sabbath amusements, but they were not as entertaining as those described in Miss Fowler’s book, in which the men who were heathens went into one corner of the room and the women who were Christians into the other and, at the beating of a gong, conversion was accomplished by a close embrace.  Our Scottish Sabbaths were very different, and I thought them more than dreary.  Although I love church music and architecture and can listen to almost any sermon at any time and even read sermons to myself, going to church in the country remains a sacrifice to me.  The painful custom in the Church of England of reading indistinctly and in an assumed voice has alienated simple people in every parish; and the average preaching is painful.  In my country you can still hear a good sermon.  When staying with Lord Haldane’s mother—­the most beautiful, humorous and saintly of old ladies—­I heard an excellent sermon at Auchterarder on this very subject, the dullness of Sundays.  The minister said that, however brightly the sun shone on stained glass windows, no one could guess what they were really like from the outside; it was from the inside only that you should judge of them.

Another time I heard a man end his sermon by saying: 

“And now, my friends, do your duty and don’t look upon the world with eyes jaundiced by religion.”

My mother hardly ever mentioned religion to us and, when the subject was brought up by other people, she confined her remarks to saying in a weary voice and with a resigned sigh that God’s ways were mysterious.  She had suffered many sorrows and, in estimating her lack of temperament, I do not think I made enough allowance for them.  No true woman ever gets over the loss of a child; and her three eldest had died before I was born.

I was the most vital of the family and what the nurses described as a “venturesome child.”  Our coachman’s wife called me “a little Turk.”  Self-willed, excessively passionate, painfully truthful, bold as well as fearless and always against convention, I was, no doubt, extremely difficult to bring up.

My mother was not lucky with her governesses—­we had two at a time, and of every nationality, French, German, Swiss, Italian and Greek—­but, whether through my fault or our governesses’, I never succeeded in making one of them really love me.  Mary Morison, [Foot note:  Miss Morison, a cousin of Mr. William Archer’s.] who kept a high school for young ladies in Innerleithen, was the first person who influenced me and my sister Laura.  She is alive now and a woman of rare intellect and character.  She was fonder of Laura than of me, but so were most people.

Here I would like to say something about my sister and Alfred Lyttelton, whom she married in 1885.