That the views of such women are often narrow, their prejudices many, their conventions tiresome, who shall deny?  That their souls are pure and tender, their hearts open to kindness as are their hands to charity, nobody who knows the type will dispute.  They lack many advantages which their more independent sisters (no less gifted with noble and womanly qualities) enjoy, but they possess a peculiar gentleness, which is all their own, whether it be adored or despised.

When one of their number happens to be cleverer, larger minded, more restless, and impatient, it may be, by nature than her sisters, tragedy may ensue.  But not often.  Habit and public opinion are strong restrainers, stronger sometimes than even the most carefully inculcated abstract principles.

To turn to another phase of the story—­there was a time during the Boer War when there was literally scarcely a woman in England who was not mourning the death of some man—­be he son, brother, or husband, lover or friend,—­and that time seems still very, very recent to some of us.

The rights and wrongs of a war have nothing to do with the sympathy all civilised men and women extend to the soldiers on both sides who take part in it.

  “Theirs not to reason why,
  Theirs but to do or die,”

and whether they “do or die,” the mingled suspense, pride, and anguish suffered by their women-kind rouses the pity of the world; but most of all, for the secret of sympathy is understanding, the pity of those who have suffered likewise.  So that such escapades as Peter’s in the story, being not very uncommon at that dark period (and having its foundation in fact), may have touched hearts over here, which will be unmoved on the other side of the Atlantic.  I cannot tell.  I have known very few Americans, and though I have counted those few among my friends, they have been rarely met.

My only knowledge of America has been gleaned from my observation of these, and from reading.  As it happens, the favourite books of my childhood were, with few exceptions, American.

Partly from association and partly because I count it the most truly delightful story of its kind that ever was written, “Little Women” has always retained its early place in my affections.  “Meg,” “Jo,” “Beth,” and “Amy” are my oldest and dearest friends; and when I think of them, it is hard to believe that America could be a land of strangers to me after all.  I confess to a weakness for the “Wide, Wide World” and a secret passion for “Queechy.”  I loved “Mr. Rutherford’s Children,” and was always interested to hear “What Katy Did,” Whilst the very thought of “Melbourne House” thrills me with recollections of the joy I experienced therein.