There was so little Cecily and so much Emma--of course, it could not be otherwise--that I used to take, I fear, but a perfunctory joy in these letters.

When we went home again I stipulated absolutely that she was to write to us without any sort of supervision--the child was ten.
'But the spelling!' cried Aunt Emma, with lifted eyebrows.
'Her letters aren't exercises,' I was obliged to retort; 'she will do the best she can.' We found her a docile little girl, with nice manners, a thoroughly unobjectionable child.

I saw quite clearly that I could not have brought her up so well; indeed, there were moments when I fancied that Cecily, contrasting me with her aunts, wondered a little what my bringing up could have been like.

With this reserve of criticism on Cecily's part, however, we got on very tolerably, largely because I found it impossible to assume any responsibility towards her, and in moments of doubt or discipline referred her to her aunts.

We spent a pleasant summer with a little girl in the house whose interest in us was amusing, and whose outings it was gratifying to arrange; but when we went back, I had no desire to take her with us.