“Here, too,” she says, “is another sorrowful story. The sisters’ fate (there is a sad coincidence and similarity in it) was to be undivided; their life, their experience, was the same. Some one without a name takes leave of Jane one day, promising to come back. He never comes back: long afterwards they hear of his death. The story seems even sadder than Cassandra’s in its silence and uncertainty, for silence and uncertainty are death in life to some people.” But if there is one thing more than another to be avoided and ruthlessly condemned, it is this quiet assumption that a woman has parted with her heart, when she herself has breathed no word to warrant it. The cheerful serenity of Jane Austen’s daily life showed no ripple of storm, her lips told no tale; and why are we to assume that a young man whom she met for a few idle weeks and never saw again had broken down the barriers of that self-possessed nature, had overcome the gay indifference which showed no signs of hurt? As for the popular theory that Anne Elliot’s gentle enduring love and poor Fanny Price’s hours of bravely borne pain were imaged from the depth of their author’s experience, we have but to remember that the same hand gave us Harriet Smith, with her fluctuating, lightly won affections, and Charlotte Collins, sensible and happy, enjoying her pleasant home, and enduring—or avoiding—her solemn, pompous, servile, stupid husband. As well connect one type as another with the genius that revealed them all. “Of Jane herself I know no definite love-tale to relate,” says her nephew and biographer, Mr. Austen Leigh; and this seems about the conclusion of the matter. “No _man’s_ life could be more entirely free from sentiment,” admits, very reluctantly, one of her cleverest critics. “If love be a woman’s chief business, here is a very sweet woman who had no share in it. It is a want, but we have no right to complain, seeing that she did not shape her course to please us.” This is a generous reflection on the critic’s part; but is the want so painfully apparent as he thinks, or may we not be well content with Jane Austen as we have her, the central figure of a little loving family group, the dearest of daughters and sisters, the gayest and brightest of aunts, the most charming and incomparable of old maids? THE CHARM OF THE FAMILIAR