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general air of being some one in particular that strikes me.
Who is this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you
find her, and how did you make her acquaintance?’
‘I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a drea-
ry room on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring
herself to death. She didn’t know she was bored, but when
I left her no doubt of it she seemed very grateful for the
service. You may say I shouldn’t have enlightened her—I
should have let her alone. There’s a good deal in that, but
I acted conscientiously; I thought she was meant for some-
thing better. It occurred to me that it would be a kindness
to take her about and introduce her to the world. She thinks
she knows a great deal of it—like most American girls; but
like most American girls she’s ridiculously mistaken. If you
want to know, I thought she would do me credit. I like to be
well thought of, and for a woman of my age there’s no great-
er convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You
know I had seen nothing of my sister’s children for years;
I disapproved entirely of the father. But I always meant to
do something for them when he should have gone to his
reward. I ascertained where they were to be found and,
without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself.
There are two others of them, both of whom are married;
but I saw only the elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil
husband. The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea
of my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was just what
her sister needed—that some one should take an interest in
her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young per-
son of genius—in want of encouragement and patronage.

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