The relation between myself and my aunt was somewhat peculiar.  Neither of us having associates of our own age in the family, I had become her companion, and even friend, to a degree which would have been impossible in other circumstances.  She had scarcely outgrown the freshness and simplicity of childhood when I first came to live with her, and my mind and feelings had expanded rapidly under the constant stimulus of a nature so full of rich life; so that at the date I now speak of, we lived together more as sisters than as aunt and niece.  An inexpressible charm rests on those days, when we read, wrote, rambled together, shared the same room, and had every pleasure, every trouble in common.  All show of authority over me had gradually melted away; but her influence with me was still unbounded, for I loved her with the passionate earnestness of a first, full-hearted friendship.—­But to proceed with my story.

One sweet afternoon in early summer, we two were sitting alone.  The windows towards the garden were open, and the breath of lilacs and roses stole in.  I had been reading to her some verses of my own, celebrating the praise of first love as an imperishable sentiment.  My fancy had just been crazed with the poetry of L.E.L., who was then shining as the “bright particular star” in the literary heavens.

“The lines are very pretty,” said my aunt, “but I trust it’s only poetizing, Kate; I should be sorry indeed to have you join the school of romantic misses who think first love such a killing matter.”

“But, Aunty,” I cried, “what a horribly prosy, matter-of-fact affair life would be in any other view!  I believe poetry itself would become extinct.”

“So, then, if a woman is disappointed in first love, she is bound to die for the benefit of poetry!”

“But just think, Aunt Linny—­if Ophelia, instead of going mad so prettily, and dying in a way to break everybody’s heart, had soberly set herself to consider that there were as fine fish yet in the sea as ever were caught, and that it was best, therefore, to cheer up and wait for better times!  Frightful!”

“Never trouble your little head, Kate, with fear that there will not be Ophelias enough, as long as the world stands.  But I wouldn’t be one, if I were you, unless I could bespeak a Shakspeare to do me into poetry.  That would be an inducement, I allow.  How would you fancy being a Sukey Fay, Kate?”

“Oh, the poor old wretch, with her rags and dirt and gin-bottle!  Has she a story?”

“Just as romantic a one as Ophelia, only she lacks a poet.  But, in sober truth, Katy, why is there not as true poetry in battling with feeling as in yielding to it?  To me there seems something far more lofty and beautiful in bearing to live, under certain circumstances, than in daring to die.”

“If you only spoke experimentally, dear Aunty!  Oh that Plato, or John Milton, or Sir Philip Sydney would reappear, and lay all his genius and glory at your feet!  I wonder if you’d be of the same mind then!”