My brother was a born mechanician, and, like our uncle Edwin Hill, could, out of an active brain, evolve almost any machine for which, in some emergency, there seemed to be need. To give free scope to Pearson's obvious bent, our father had, in his son's early youth, caused a large four-stalled stable adjoining our house at Hampstead to be altered into a well-equipped workshop; and in this many a long evening was spent, the window being often lighted up some hours after the rest of the family had retired to bed, and my brother being occasionally obliged to sing out, through the one open pane, a cheery “good-night” to the passing policeman, who paused to see if a burglarious conspiracy was being devised during the nocturnal small hours, from the convenient vantage-ground of the outhouse. The dream of my brother's life was to become a civil engineer, for which profession, indeed, few young men could have been better fitted; and the dream seemed to approach accomplishment when, during a visit to our father, Sir William (afterwards first Lord) Armstrong spoke most highly of Pearson's achievements—he had just put into completed form two long-projected small inventions—and offered to take the youth into his own works at Newcastle-on-Tyne. But the dream was never destined to find realisation. Sir William's visit and proposal made a fitting opportunity for the putting to my brother of a serious question which had been in our father's head for some time. In his son's integrity, ability, and affection, Rowland Hill had absolute trust. Were the younger man but working with him at the Post Office, the elder knew he could rely on unswerving support, on unwavering fidelity. The choice of callings was laid before my brother: life as a civil engineer—a profession in which his abilities could not fail to command success—or the less ambitious career of a clerk at St Martin's-le-Grand. Our father would not dwell upon his own strong leaning towards the latter course, but with the ever-present mental image of harassing official intrigues against himself and his hard-won reform, it is not difficult to picture with what conflicting emotions he must have waited his son's decision. This was left entirely in the young man's hands; and he chose the part which he knew would best serve his father. The cherished dream was allowed to melt into nothingness, and my brother began his postal career not as a favoured, but as an ordinary clerk, though one always near at hand, and always in the complete confidence of his immediate chief. Whatever regrets for the more congenial life Pearson may have harboured, he never, to my knowledge, gave them audible expression, nor could any father have had a more loyal son. When, many years later, it seemed desirable that some official should be appointed to report on the value of the mechanical inventions periodically offered to the Post Office, and to supervise those already in operation, it seemed when my brother was