ever, they are not this, and yet it is very dreadful that they are
not. As for genius--hoity-toity, indeed--why, a genius should turn
intellectual summersaults as soon as it is born, and none of my children
have yet been able to get into the newspapers. I will not have children
of mine give themselves airs--it is enough for them that Theobald and I
should do so."

She did not know, poor woman, that the true greatness wears an invisible
cloak, under cover of which it goes in and out among men without being
suspected; if its cloak does not conceal it from itself always, and from
all others for many years, its greatness will ere long shrink to very
ordinary dimensions. What, then, it may be asked, is the good of being
great? The answer is that you may understand greatness better in others,
whether alive or dead, and choose better company from these and enjoy and
understand that company better when you have chosen it--also that you may
be able to give pleasure to the best people and live in the lives of
those who are yet unborn. This, one would think, was substantial gain
enough for greatness without its wanting to ride rough-shod over us, even
when disguised as humility.

I was there on a Sunday, and observed the rigour with which the young
people were taught to observe the Sabbath; they might not cut out things,
nor use their paintbox on a Sunday, and this they thought rather hard,
because their cousins the John Pontifexes might do these things. Their
cousins might play with their toy train on Sunday, but though they had
promised that they would run none but Sunday trains, all traffic had been
prohibited. One treat only was allowed them--on Sunday evenings they
might choose their own hymns.

In the course of the evening they came into the drawing-room, and, as an
especial treat, were to sing some of their hymns to me, instead of saying
them, so that I might hear how nicely they sang. Ernest was to choose
the first hymn, and he chose one about some people who were to come to
the sunset tree. I am no botanist, and do not know what kind of tree a
sunset tree is, but the words began, "Come, come, come; come to the
sunset tree for the day is past and gone." The tune was rather pretty
and had taken Ernest's fancy, for he was unusually fond of music and had
a sweet little child's voice which he liked using.

He was, however, very late in being able to sound a hard it "c" or "k,"
and, instead of saying "Come," he sai