The unfailing charm of Fawcett’s home life was a constant delight and rest to him. Mrs. Fawcett’s share in his career was of the greatest possible moment. Their only child Philippa began to be a source of great pleasure, and she enjoyed being with her father on his country expeditions as much as he delighted in having her with him. Declaring firmly that he believed in at least eleven hours’ skating, this serious statesman would often ponder deeply, as he thoughtfully rubbed his blue glasses and replaced them on his nose, how with ingenuity it would be possible to contrive to fit in another hour on the ice. He not only skated by himself, depending only on the voice of his companion to steer him, but he insisted that his wife, daughter, secretary, and two maids should all turn out to have a good time with him. Only the cook, on the uncontrovertible score of old age, was excused. Little Philippa greatly enjoyed accompanying her father, and whistling in order to guide him. When she was about nine years old she had returned from a wonderful skate, when she had steered him in the customary fashion. She told her mother all about it and what fun they had had, on a particularly difficult route, her father depending solely on her piping to guide him. ‘And what did you whistle?’ asked the mother. ‘Oh, just “Gentle Jesus,”’ came the prompt reply. [Sidenote: Hymns.] Perhaps it is not amiss to indicate here the complete control that this small person exercised over her giant father. At this period of her life she had been imbued by her nurse with an intense devoutness. One Sunday morning he was singing to himself: it is only proper to say that the word singing is not an exact term, as all his friends and family are agreed that he was incapable of producing melody or sweet noises. His tiny daughter popped her head in at the crack of the door, saying solemnly: ‘You mustn’t sing, it’s Sunday!’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Fawcett. ‘Wait,’ was the answer; closing the door his mentor disappeared, doubtless to consult with the nurse who had filled her with so much theological technique. Again the child appeared at the crack in the door, saying briefly: ‘If it’s hymns you may, if it isn’t you mayn’t,’ and the singing ceased abruptly! [Sidenote: The sanctity of Open Spaces.]