I.
‘In 1869 she came to her house near Sutton; but that sorrowful year to her did not leave much impression upon me, probably because she was so little with us, and so much with her sister who died in our house. I remember her next in the summer of 1870, when my sister was born, coming into the nursery to announce the fact, and afterwards showing us the baby, assuring us that she was “as fragile as egg-shells.” She played the organ in our little country church, and visited the poor,—on one occasion going out at night to administer a mustard plaster to one poor woman, who thought herself dying, and sent for Miss Tucker....
‘As we grew older she would help us with our charades and games, planning wonderful card games herself, and ornamenting them with brush and stencil. It was she who introduced us to Shakespeare, making me love him as no one else ever could, and making us read him in parts.... On Sunday afternoons she would take us up to her room, in order that my Mother might rest in peace from the children; and there we always spent a delightful time, looking over her dressing-case with its treasures, and listening to the histories of each trinket and curiosity, or messing with her paints. I do not remember that we ever felt ourselves to be in the way in that happy room. It was during this time that she wrote The Haunted House, which thrilled me with so much horror, that it was not until years after that I learnt there was a spiritual meaning underlying the tale.
‘She was never ill, but always felt the cold extremely in winter, though she did not complain much. One day I came down to breakfast, exclaiming, “How beautiful the snow is!”—when she told me how pleased she was that I could say so, instead of saying, “How cold it is!” When I was ill in the year 1872, she often came to see me, quite disregarding the infection of my throat; she would play her guitar to me, or, as I grew better, would patiently guide my little fingers to the right places on the strings. She made up a pretty letter in rhyme, and sent it in a stamped envelope to amuse me. I do not remember her ever talking to me on religious subjects; but her untiring energy and gentle patience made much impression on me....
‘My aunt would never give way to us little ones when she was convinced that we were wrong; and I well remember a prolonged struggle between her and my baby-sister, who was left in her charge one day.... My aunt regarded the sin of drunkenness with the greatest horror; she rarely mentions it in her books, and generally, where it is touched upon, she writes with the deepest pathos, as in The Great Impostor. She would only talk of brandy by its French name, and considered it dangerous to take Tincture of Rhubarb, on account of the spirit it contains....
‘My aunt would never have expressed disapproval of others, as many of the younger generation do, who are of her own way of thinking. Where she did not approve, she was usually silent....
‘But stern as she was by nature, her intense love—the love of a strong nature—made her gentle to the weaknesses of others. She could not sympathise often with the weak, but she could pity and love. Long years of home-discipline gave humility, self-control, and gentleness.’
II.
‘There are some lives that carry about with them an atmosphere, as it were, of influence and example.... It was thus with “Auntie Char.” We used to think and say, “How she would have admired such a deed!”—“How she would have grieved at such a want of courage!” if anything mean or underhand were done. One knew beforehand what her opinion of the transaction would be; at the same time her marvellous sympathy, so readily given, was the first sought in cases of bravery or of moral courage....