Miss Rowly seldom saw any individual thing to disapprove of. She it was
who selected the governesses and who interviewed them from time to time
as to the child's progress. Not often was there any complaint, for the
little thing had such a pretty way of showing affection, and such a
manifest sense of justified trust in all whom she encountered, that it
would have been hard to name a specific fault. But though all went in tears of affectionate regret, and with eminently
satisfactory emoluments and references, there came an irregularly timed
succession of governesses. Stephen's affection for her 'Auntie' was never affected by any of the
changes. Others might come and go, but there no change came. The
child's little hand would steal into one of the old lady's strong ones,
or would clasp a finger and hold it tight. And then the woman who had
never had a child of her own would feel, afresh each time, as though the
child's hand was gripping her heart. With her father she was sweetest of all. And as he seemed to be pleased
when she did anything like a little boy, the habit of being like one
insensibly grew on her. An only child has certain educational difficulties. The true learning is
not that which we are taught, but that which we take in for ourselves
from experience and observation, and children's experiences and
observation, especially of things other than repressive, are mainly of
children. The little ones teach each other. Brothers and sisters are
more with each other than are ordinary playmates, and in the familiarity
of their constant intercourse some of the great lessons, so useful in
after-life, are learned. Little Stephen had no means of learning the
wisdom of give-and-take. To her everything was given, given bountifully
and gracefully. Graceful acceptance of good things came to her
naturally, as it does to one who is born to be a great lady. The
children of the farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom at times she
played, were in such habitual awe of the great house, that they were
seldom sufficiently at ease to play naturally. Children cannot be on
equal terms on special occasions with a person to whom they have been
taught to bow or courtesy as a public habit. The children of
neighbouring landowners, who were few and far between, and of the
professional people in Norcester, were at such times as Stephen met them,
generally so much on their good behaviour, that the spontaneity of play,
through which it is that sharp corners of individuality are knocked off
or worn down, did not exist. And so Stephen learned to read in the Book of Life; though only on one
side of it. At the age of six she had, though surrounded with loving
care and instructed by skilled teachers, learned only the accepting side
of life. Giving of course there was in plenty, for the traditions of
Normanstand were royally benevolent; many a blessing followed the little
maid's footsteps as she accompanied some timely aid to the sick and needy
sent from the Squire's house. Moreover, her Aunt tried to inculcate
certain maxims founded on that noble one that it is more blessed to give
than to receive. But of giving in its true sense: the giving that which
we want for ourselves, the giving that is as a temple built on the rock
of self-sacrifice, she knew nothing. Her sweet and spontaneous nature,
which gave its love and sympathy so readily, was almost a bar to
education: it blinded the eyes that would have otherwise seen any defect
that wanted altering, any evil trait that needed repression, any lagging
virtue that required encouragement--or the spur. CHAPTER III--HAROLD


Squire Norman had a clerical friend whose rectory of Carstone lay some
thirty miles from Normanstand. Thirty miles is not a great distance for
railway travel; but it is a long drive. The days had not come, nor were
they ever likely to come, for the making of a railway between the two
places. For a good many years the two men had met in renewal of their
old University days. Squire Norman and Dr. An Wolf had been chums at
Trinity, Cambridge, and the boyish friendship had ripened and lasted. When Harold An Wolf had put in his novitiate in a teeming Midland
manufacturing town, it was Norman's influence which obtained the
rectorship for his friend. It was not often that they could meet, for An
Wolf's work, which, though not very exacting, had to be done
single-handed, kept him to his post. Besides, he was a good scholar and
eked out a small income by preparing a few pupils for public school. An
occasional mid-week visit to Normanstand in the slack time of school work
on the Doctor's part, and now and again a drive by Norman over to the
rectory, returning the next day, had been for a good many years the
measure of their meeting. Then An Wolf's marriage and the birth of a son
had kept him closer to home. Mrs. An Wolf had been killed in a railway
accident a couple of years after her only child had been born; and at the
time Norman had gone over to render any assistance in his power to the
afflicted man, and to give him what was under the circumstances his best
gift, sympathy. After an interval of a few years the Squire's courtship
and marriage, at which his old friend had assisted, had confined his
activities to a narrower circle. The last time they had met was when An
Wolf had come over to Norcester to aid in the burial of his friend's
wife. In the process of years, however, the shadow over Norman's life
had begun to soften; when his baby had grown to be something of a
companion, they met again. Norman, 'who had never since his wife's death
been able to tear himself, even for a night, away from Normanstand and
Stephen, wrote to his old friend asking him to come to him. An Wolf
gladly promised, and for a week of growing expectation the Squire looked
forward to their meeting. Each found the other somewhat changed, in all
but their old affection. An Wolf was delighted with the little Stephen. Her dainty beauty seemed
to charm him; and the child, seeming to realise what pleasure she was
giving, exercised all her little winning ways. The rector, who knew more
of children than did his, friend, told her as she sat on his knee of a
very interesting person: his own son. The child listened, interested at
first, then enraptured. She asked all kinds of questions; and the
father's eyes brightened as he gladly answered the pretty sympathetic
child, already deep in his heart for her father's sake. He told her
about the boy who was so big and strong, and who could run and leap and
swim and play cricket and football better than any other boy with whom he
played. When, warmed himself by the keen interest of the little girl,
and seeing her beautiful black eyes beginning to glow, he too woke to the
glory of the time; and all the treasured moments of the father's lonely
heart gave out their store.