‘Happy beyond all measure. Sometimes, of a winter’s evening—winter was the pleasantest time in that dark little parlour—he would sit idly by the fire in a great arm-chair; sometimes he would take his violin from a shelf in the corner by the chimney-piece, and play to me. I used to climb upon his knee, and sit half buried in the big chair while he played; such sweet music, low and solemn, like the music of one’s dreams. I have heard nothing like it since. Those were happy nights when he stayed at home till I went to bed, happy hours beside the fire. We used to have no light in the room but the fire-light, and I fancied the shadowy corners were full of fairies.’ ‘Did you hear nothing of the quarrel between your father and your grandfather? Children, even at seven years old, are quick to observe.’ ‘No. If they quarrelled it was not in my hearing. My grandfather lived entirely in his business. He seldom came into the parlour except for his meals, or until late at night, when I had gone to bed. I only know that one morning he was very ill, and when he came down-stairs he had an awful look in his face, like the face of a man risen from the grave, and he beckoned me to him, and told me my father had gone away, for ever. I cannot tell you my grief, it was almost desperate. I wanted to run away, to follow my father. And one night, which I remember, O so well, a wet winter night, I got up and put on my clothes somehow, after Mrs. Wincher had put me to bed, and crept down the dark staircase, and opened the door in the passage at the side of the shop, which was rarely used, and went out into the wet streets. I can see the lamps reflected on the shining pavement to this day, if I shut my eyes, and feel the cold wet wind blowing upon my face.’ ‘Poor child!’