Now Miss Eudoxia Rosedew was always very sorry when she had indulged too much in the pleasure of hurting others. It was not in her nature to harm any living creature; but she could not understand that hurt is the feminine of harm—the feminine frequentative, if I may suggest that anomaly. She had a warm, impulsive heart, and sided almost always with the weaker party. Convinced profoundly, as she was, of her brotherʼs great ability, she believed, whenever a question arose, that the strength was all on his side, and so she went “dead against him”. One thing, and the most material one, she entirely overlooked, as a sister is apt to do: to wit, the breadth and modesty of her brotherʼs nature. One thing, I say, for the two are one, so closely are they united. It is a goodly sight to see John Rosedew and his sister upon their way to church. She supporting the family dignity, with a maid behind her to carry the books—that it may please thee to defend us with a real footman!—just touching Johnʼs arm with the tips of her glove, because he rolls so shockingly, and even his Sunday coat may be greasy; then, if a little girl comes by, “Lady Eudoxia”—as the village, half in joke, and half in earnest, has already dubbed her—Lady Eudoxia never looks at her (they are so self–important now, even those brats of children!), but she knows by instinct whether that little girl has curtseyed. If she has, it is nicely acknowledged; but if she has not, what a chill runs down the ladyʼs rigid spine! “John, did you see that”? “See what, Doxy?—Three sugar–plums, my little dear, and a few of our cough–lozenges. I heard you cough last Sunday; and you may suck them in the sermon time, because they donʼt smell of peppermint, and they are quite as nice as liquorice. How is your mammy, my darling”? “Well, John—well, Mr. Rosedew!—If you have no more sense of propriety—and so near the house of God——” And Miss Eudoxia walks on in front, while the girl who failed to curtsey has thrust one brown hand long ago into the parsonʼs ample palm, and with the other is stoking that voracious engine whose vernacular name is “mouth”. Amy, of course, is at the school, where this little girl ought by rights to have been, only for her cough, which would come on so dreadfully when the words were hard to spell; and, when they meet Amy by the gate (the double gate of the churchyard—both sides only opened for funerals), how smooth, and rich, and calm she looks—calm, yet with a heart of triumph, as her own class clusters round her, and wonʼt even glimpse at the boys—not even the very smallest boy—one of whom has the cheek to whistle, and pretends that he meant the “Old Hundredth”.