an on the ship was their own familiar
friend, bound to them by little interchanges of biscuits, confidences,
twine, and by that electric smile which their mother communicated, and
from which no one wished to be insulated. Yes, they quite pervaded the
vessel, these three little innocents, flying that bright and friendly
smile; and there was no description of mischief suitable for three
very little boys that they did not exhaust. The ingenuity they
squandered every day in doing a hundred things which they ought not to
have done was perfectly marvellous. Before the voyage was half over we
thought there was nothing left for them to do; but we were entirely
mistaken. The daily round, a common cask would furnish all they had to
ask; to them the meanest whistle that blows, or a pocket-knife, could
give thoughts that too often led to smiles and tears.

Their mother's thoughts were ever with them; but she was like a hen
with a brood of ducklings. They passed out of her element, and only
returned as hunger called them. When they did return she was all that
soap and water, loving reproaches, and tender appeals could be; and as
they were very affectionate little boys, they were for the time
thoroughly cleansed morally and physically, and sealed with the
absolution of kisses.

I saw her three years afterwards in England. She was living in
lodgings near a school which her boys attended. She looked careworn.
Her relations had been kind to her, but not warmly affectionate. She
had been disappointed with the welcome they had given her. They seemed
changed to her, more formal, narrower, colder. She longed to be back
in India; to be with her husband once more. But he was engrossed with
his work. He wrote short letters enclosing cheques; but he never said
that he missed her, that he longed to see her again, that she must
come out to him, or that he must go to her. He could not have grown
cold too? No, he was busy; he had never been demonstrative in his
affection; this was his way. And she was anxious about the boys. She
did not know whether they were really getting on, whether she was
doing the best for them, whether their father would be satisfied. She
had no friends near her, no one to speak to; so she brooded over these
problems, exaggerated them, and fretted.

The husband was a man who lived in his own thoughts, and his thoughts
were book thoughts. The world of leaf and bird, the circumambient
firmament of music and light, shone in