The very first bud which appeared on the oldfashioned rose-bushes at the back of the house was watched for and discovered when it was a tiny, hard, green thing. “There’s a bud,” he would say, “and I’m watching till it is a rose, so that I can give it to you.” There is nothing so loving as a child who is loved. What valuable assistance he rendered in the matter of toilet! How charmed he was with any pretty new thing! How delighted to be allowed to put on slippers or take them off, to stand by the dressing-table and hand pins, and give the benefit of his admiring advice. And how adorable it was to come home late from a party and find the pincushion adorned with a love-letter, scrawled boldly in lead pencil and secured by a long pin. In conjunction with his brother—who was the troubadour of love from his infancy, and who has a story of his own—he invented the most delightful surprises for those late returns. Sometimes pieces of candy wrapped in paper awaited the arrival, sometimes _billets doux_, sometimes singular rhymes courageously entitled “A Valentine.” The following was the fine flower of all: “MY MAMA “O my swetest little mama, Sweteness that can ne’er be told Dwells all decked in glory behind thy bosom folds. In love and tender sweteness Thy heart has no compare And as through the path of sorrow Thy heart goes wangering on Thow always lend a helping hand To all who are alone. “ESEX ESSEX.” “What does ‘Essex’ mean, darling?” I asked. “I don’t know what it means,” he said, sweetly, “and I didn’t spell it right at first. But, you know, when any one writes poetry they nearly always put another name at the end, and I thought Essex would do.” He was so desirous of making it complete! CHAPTER III IN BOYHOOD AND NOW As a travelling companion what a success he was! How he made friends in the train, at railway stations, on steamers! How, if one lost sight of him for a moment, he invariably reappeared full of delight, with the information that he had “found a friend.” As I was struggling in the usual manner up the crowded gangway of an ocean steamer on one occasion, his flushed and radiant countenance appeared over the rail, where he had climbed. “Dearest, dearest,” he said, “I’ve found a friend. He’s a French gentleman and can’t speak English.” He had found him on the tug, and they had apparently sworn eternal amity between the wharf and the steamer, though how this had been accomplished I was never quite able to determine, as he had only just begun to attack valiantly a verb or so of the first conjugation. But with the assistance of “donner,” “aller,” “aimer,” and a smile like his, nothing was impossible.