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During the last years of our Bristol life, a house at Olveston, about nine miles from town, was rented as a summer residence. This afforded fresh delight. Not only was the neighbourhood beautiful, and interesting with views of the Welsh mountains seen across the Severn from a high common near by, and the remains of an old abbey where wolves’ heads were formerly taken as tribute still remained; but the large, well-stocked garden was separated from the orchard by a rapid stream, over which two tiny bridges were thrown.

To active, imaginative children this little domain was a source of never-ending enjoyment, whether cherishing pet animals, cultivating gardens, or playing Robinson Crusoe. When not staying in town we lived in this pleasant place, my father driving out from business daily.

Only on rare occasions did any of the children go to school. Governesses and masters at home supplied the necessary book knowledge; and a passion for reading grew up, which made the present of a new book the greatest delight, and our own pocket-money was chiefly spent in buying books.