us then. Looking at us
now, so quiet, so well-behaved, _such_ ornaments to society, you would
be surprised what villains we once were--at least on week-days! We had
what R.L.S. calls a "covenanting childhood." Looking back, it seems
to me that our childhood was a queer mixture of Calvinism and fairy
tales. Calvinism, even now, I associate with ham and eggs--I suppose
because Sabbath morning was the only time we ever tasted that
delicacy. Between bustling Saturday night, when we wistfully watched
our toys being locked away, and cheery Monday morning, when things
began again, there was a great gulf fixed, and that was the Sabbath
Day. What strenuous Sabbath Days we had! First there was worship and
the Catechism. (The only time I ever wished to be English was when
I thought I might have dallied with "What is your name?" instead of
wrestling with such deep things as "What is man's chief end?") After
worship was over we were allowed to walk in the garden till it was
time for the morning service. That was the Forenoon Diet of Worship,
then came the Afternoon Diet of Worship. Having sat like rocks through
them both, we proceeded to the Sabbath School, and then went home to
tea, and cake, and jam, and an evening filled with bound volumes of
_The Christian Treasury_, where we wrestled with tales of religious
bigotry and persecution until we seemed to breathe the very atmosphere
of dark and mouldy cells; and became daringly familiar with the
thumb-screw and the rack, the Inquisition and other devildoms of
Spain. I used to wonder pitifully why it had never occurred to the
poor victims to say their prayers in bed, and thus save themselves
such fiery trials.

I wonder why I pretend we found our Sundays a trial. Looking back, I
love every minute of them. Father could make any day delightful; and
what a through-the-week Father he was! Sometimes he came to tea with
us in the nursery and made believe there was a fairy called Annabel
Lee in the teapot, carrying on conversations with her that sent eerie
thrills down our several spines. Afterwards he would read out of a
little green and gold book that contained for us all the romance of
the ages between its elegant covers. From Father we heard of Angus the
Subtle, Morag of the Misty Way, and the King of Errin, who rides and
rides and whose road is to the End of Days. Sometimes, laying books
aside, he told us old tales that he had heard from his mother, who in
turn had heard them from hers