as a home; his environment from boyhood had not suited him, and
though he loved his mother, and gave her, at least outwardly, the
obedience and honour that were due to her, there had not been that
sympathy between them that one would have expected from an only son
to a widowed mother.

Malcolm's father had died when he was about six years old, but his
infant recollections of him were wonderfully vivid. He remembered
waking up one night from some childish dream that had frightened
him, to see a kind face bending over him, and to feel warm, strong
arms lifting him up.

"Never mind, Sonny, father's with you," he heard a cheery voice say.

"Daddy's wid baby," he repeated drowsily, as he nestled down in his
father's arms. "Nice, nice daddy," and two hot little hands patted
his face.

Then a voice in the distance said, "You are spoiling him, Rupert.
Malcolm ought to be a brave boy and not cry on account of a silly
dream." Of course it was his mother who spoke; even from his infancy
her method of education had been bracing. "Baby isn't a boy,
movver," he had once said in extenuation of some childish fault;
"movver must not punish Baby."

The memories of early childhood are always vague and hazy; but in
the distance, among shifting forms and changing prospects, there was
always a big, big figure, with kind eyes and strong arms, looming
largely in his recollection.