There was something contagious in her enjoyment of life, and with all her strong religious faith, the thought of death, of any final pulse and silence in the whirr of the great social machine was to her a thought of greater chill and horror than to many a less brave and spiritual soul.
Till her boy was twelve years old, however, she had lived for him first and foremost.

She had taught him, played with him, learnt with him, communicating to him through all his lessons her own fire and eagerness to a degree which every now and then taxed the physical powers of the child.

Whenever the signs of strain appeared, however, the mother would be overtaken by a fit of repentant watchfulness, and for days together Robert would find her the most fascinating playmate, storyteller, and romp; and forget all his precocious interest in history or vulgar fractions.

In after years when Robert looked back upon his childhood, he was often reminded of the stories of Goethe's bringing-up.

He could recall exactly the same scenes as Goethe describes,--mother and child sitting together in the gloaming, the mother's dark eyes dancing with fun or kindling with dramatic fire, as she carried an imaginary hero or heroine through a series of the raciest adventures; the child all eagerness and sympathy, now clapping his little hands at the fall of the giant, or the defeat of the sorcerer, and now arguing and suggesting in ways which gave perpetually fresh stimulus to the mother's inventiveness.