I looked at the old Dutch clock. Ten minutes, I said, before going to bed. Ten minutes, ten golden minutes, when it is not a duty to do anything, or a matter of reproach to be idle. The fire was dying softly down. I saw all faintly by the dim light of the lamp--the dark panelling, the two Turners, the old Bohemian bench, the stern outline of the altar, and outside the still night. [Sidenote: THE COMPANY OF SAINTS] "Are you not afraid to sit by yourself?" a somewhat foolish friend once asked me. "I should be terribly alarmed of ghosts." "Afraid of holy spirits?" I remember answering. "No crime is associated with Wenlock. There is only an atmosphere of prayer and saintliness there, a fragrance from holy lives rising up to God in perpetual intercession; surely such thoughts should make nobody uneasy or unhappy." "I don't know," my friend had replied. "But lancet windows, I know, always make me creepy--and living in a church," she added inconsequently, "would be almost as bad as having a house with a curse. I am sure I should always be dreaming of finding a walled-up skeleton, or something mediæval and uncomfortable." At which we had both laughed, and I confessed that I liked being left to my angels and my prayers, and that it was good to believe that one had a soul, and that all the forces of God's world were not comprised in steam, the Press, and electricity. Then, as I sat on, my mind reverted to the little child, sleeping, I hoped, peacefully upstairs. "Poor little impetuous Bess," I said to myself, "I trust some day she will not break her heart against the bars of earth. She wills, and wants, so strongly when the fit is on her, and then afterwards, remorse, sorrow, and despair." The child is the father of the man, and in my mind's eye I saw my little maiden as she would be in womanhood--dark, passionate, devoted, generous, impulsive, with a golden heart, but self-willed and not easy to guide. Heaven grant her pathway may not lie across many briars, and that I may be able to protect, and water the flowers, in the garden of her soul. All education is a hard matter, and we parents are often like children groping in the dark. It takes all that mother and father can do, friends and contemporaries, and, after all, in Burbidge's homely language, is often "a parlous and weedy job." We so often give the wrong thing to our children, and, what is worse, the wrong thing out of love and affection. We so often, as Montaigne wrote, "stuff the memory and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void." We are too often knowing only in what makes present knowledge, "and not at all in what is past, no more than which is to come." We do not think sufficiently of the development and growth of character. Above all, few fathers and mothers try simply to make their children good men and women, without which all is lost; for, as the great essayist said, "all other knowledge is hurtful to him or her who has not the science of goodness."