eptionally little man himself, but one of the biggest
hearted that ever breathed.

On leaving I would formally hand him my half-crown, "with mamma's
compliments," and he would formally accept it. But on putting my hand
into my jacket pocket when outside the gate I would invariably find
it there. The first time I took it back to him, but unblushingly he
repudiated all knowledge.

"Must be another half-crown," he suggested; "such things do happen.
One puts change into a pocket and overlooks it. Slippery things,
half-crowns."

Returning home on this particular day of days, I paused upon the bridge,
and watched for awhile the lazy barges manoeuvring their way between the
piers. It was one of those hushed summer evenings when the air even of
grim cities is full of whispering voices; and as, turning away from the
river, I passed through the white toll-gate, I had a sense of leaving
myself behind me on the bridge. So vivid was the impression, that I
looked back, half expecting to see myself still leaning over the iron
parapet, looking down into the sunlit water.

It sounds foolish, but I leave it standing, wondering if to others a
like experience has ever come. The little chap never came back to me.
He passed away from me as a man's body may possibly pass away from him,
leaving him only remembrance and regret. For a time I tried to play his
games, to dream his dreams, but the substance was wanting. I was only a
thin ghost, making believe.

It troubled me for quite a spell of time, even to the point of tears,
this feeling that my childhood lay behind me, this sudden realisation
that I was travelling swiftly the strange road called growing up. I did
not want to grow up; could nothing be done to stop it? Rather would I
be always as I had been, playing, dreaming. The dark way frightened me.
Must I go forward?

Then gradually, but very slowly, with the long months and years, came
to me the consciousness of a new being, new pulsations, sensories,
throbbings, rooted in but differing widely from the old; and little
Paul, the Paul of whom I have hitherto spoken, faded from my life.

So likewise must I let him fade with sorrow from this book. But before
I part with him entirely, let me recall what else I can remember of him.
Thus we shall be quit of him, and he will interfere with us no more.

Chief among the pictures that I see is that of my aunt Fan, crouching
over the kitchen fire; her skirt and crinoline rolled up round her