life, as the first tangible link between my own heart and that calm
great soul.

My father was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw hat over
his eyes (it was summer), and his book on his lap. Suddenly a beautiful
delf blue-and-white flower-pot, which had been set on the window-sill of
an upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the fragments
spluttered up round my father's legs. Sublime in his studies as
Archimedes in the siege, he continued to read,--Impavidum ferient
ruince!

"Dear, dear!" cried my mother, who was at work in the porch, "my poor
flower-pot that I prized so much! Who could have done this? Primmins,
Primmins!"

Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the fatal window, nodded to the
summons, and came down in a trice, pale and breathless.

"Oh!" said my mother, Mournfully, "I would rather have lost all the
plants in the greenhouse in the great blight last May,--I would rather
the best tea-set were broken! The poor geranium I reared myself, and
the dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton bought for me my last
birthday! That naughty child must have done this!"

Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid of my father,--why, I know not,
except that very talkative social persons are usually afraid of very
silent shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her master, who was
beginning to evince signs of attention, and cried promptly, "No, ma'am,
it was not the dear boy, bless his flesh, it was I!"