Fortunately Stephenson possessed a facility of sleeping, which enabled him to pass through this enormous amount of fatigue and labour without injury to his health. He had been trained in a hard school, and could bear with ease conditions which, to men more softly nurtured, would have been the extreme of physical discomfort. Many, many nights he snatched his sleep while travelling in his chaise; and at break of day he would be at work, surveying until dark, and this for weeks in succession. His whole powers seemed to be under the control of his will, for he could wake at any hour, and go to work at once. It was difficult for secretaries and assistants to keep up with such a man. It is pleasant to record that in the midst of these engrossing occupations, his heart remained as soft and loving as ever. In spring-time he would not be debarred of his boyish pursuit of bird-nesting; but would go rambling along the hedges spying for nests. In the autumn he went nutting, and when he could snatch a few minutes he indulged in his old love of gardening. His uniform kindness and good temper, and his communicative, intelligent disposition, made him a great favourite with the neighbouring farmers, to whom he would volunteer much valuable advice on agricultural operations, drainage, ploughing, and labour-saving processes. Sometimes he took a long rural ride on his favourite “Bobby,” now growing old, but as fond of his master as ever. Towards the end of his life, “Bobby” lived in clover, its master’s pet, doing no work; and he died at Tapton, in 1845, more than twenty years old. During one of George’s brief sojourns at the Grange, he found time to write to his son a touching account of a pair of robins that had built their nest within one of the upper chambers of the house. One day he observed a robin fluttering outside the windows, and beating its wings against the panes, as if eager to gain admission. He went up stairs, and there found, in a retired part of one of the rooms, a robin’s nest, with one of the parent birds sitting over three or four young—all dead. The excluded bird outside still beat against the panes; and on the window being let down, it flew into the room, but was so exhausted that it dropped upon the floor. Mr. Stephenson took up the bird, carried it down stairs, had it warmed and fed. The poor robin revived, and for a time was one of his pets. But it shortly died too, as if unable to recover from the privations it had endured during its three days’ fluttering and beating at the windows. It appeared that the room had been unoccupied, and, the sash having been let down, the robins had taken the opportunity of building their nest within it; but the servant having closed the window again, the calamity befel the birds which so strongly excited Mr. Stephenson’s sympathies. An incident such as this, trifling though it may seem, gives the true key to the heart of the man.