Dearly as I loved my benefactress, it was not "that perfect love which casteth out fear." As her benevolence was warm, her justice was inflexible.

Hers was the kind hand, but the firm nerves that could sustain a friend, while the knife of the surgeon entered the quivering flesh.

She shrunk not from inflicting pain, if it was for another's good; but if she wounded with one hand, she strewed balm with the other.

Her influence was strong, controlling, almost irresistible.

Like the sunshine that forced the wind-blown traveller to throw aside his cloak, the warmth of her kindness penetrated, but it also _compelled_.
I had a growing conviction that though she called me her adopted child, she did not wish me to presume upon her kindness so far as to look upon her son in the familiar light of a brother.