"She is so full of sympathy. She always comes and wants you to sympathise with her. She just lives upon sympathy." "So full of sympathy!" said my Aunt Kezia, turning round on Fanny. "So empty, child, you mean. What poor weak thing are you talking about?" "Cousin Amelia Bracewell," answered Fanny. "She is such a charming creature. Don't you think so, Aunt Kezia? Such a dear sympathetic darling!" "It is well you told me whom you meant, Fanny," said my Aunt Kezia, pursing up her lips. "I should never have guessed you meant Amelia Bracewell, from what you said. Well, how differently two people can see the same thing, to be sure!" "Don't you like her, Aunt Kezia?" returned Fanny in an astonished tone. "If I am to speak the full truth, my dear," said my Aunt Kezia, "I am afraid I come as near to despising her as a Christian woman and a communicant has any business to do. I never had any fancy for birds of prey." "Birds of prey!" exclaimed Fanny, blankly. "Birds of prey," repeated my aunt in a very different tone. "She is one of those folks who are for ever drawing twopenny cheques upon your feelings, and there are no funds in my bank to meet them. I can stand a bucketful of feeling drawn out of me, but I hate to let it waste away in a drop here and a driblet there about nothing at all. Now I will just tell you, girls--I once went to see a woman who had lost fifteen hundred a year, all at a blow, without a bit of warning. What she had to say was--`The Lord has taken it, and He knows best. I can trust Him to care for me.' Well, about a week afterwards, I had a visit from another woman, who had let a pan boil over, and had spoilt a lot of jam. She wanted me to say she was the most tried creature since Adam. And I could not, girls--I really could not. I have not the slightest doubt there have been a million women worse tried since the battle of Prague, never mention Adam. As to Amelia Bracewell, who carries her fan as if it were a sceptre, and slurs her r's like a Londoner, silly chit! I have hardly any patience with her. Charlotte's bad enough, but Amelia! My word, she takes some standing, I can tell you!" Now, I always admired the way Amelia sounds her r's, or, I suppose I ought to say, the way she does not sound them. It is so soft and pretty. Then she writes poetry,--all about the blue sea and the silver moon, or else the gleaming sunbeams and the hoary hills--so grand! I never read anything so beautiful as Amelia's poetry. She told me once that a gentleman from London, who was fourth cousin to a peer of some sort, had told her she wrote as well as Mr Pope. Only think!