I controlled myself instantly and waited expectantly.  What would she say?  Surely not that tame old yarn anent this world being merely a place of probation, wherein we were allowed time to fit ourselves for a beautiful world to come.  That old tune may be all very well for old codgers tottering on the brink of the grave, but to young persons with youth and romance and good health surging through their veins, it is most boresome.  Would she preach that it was flying in the face of providence to moan about my appearance? it being one of the greatest blessings I had, as it would save me from countless temptations to which pretty girls are born.  That was another piece of old croaking of the job’s comforter order, of which I was sick unto death, as I am sure there is not an ugly person in the world who thinks her lack of beauty a blessing to her.  I need not have feared aunt Helen holding forth in that strain.  She always said something brave and comforting which made me ashamed of myself and my selfish conceited egotism.

“I understand you, Sybylla,” she said slowly and distinctly, “but you must not be a coward.  There is any amount of love and good in the world, but you must search for it.  Being misunderstood is one of the trials we all must bear.  I think that even the most common-minded person in the land has inner thoughts and feelings which no one can share with him, and the higher one’s organization the more one must suffer in that respect.  I am acquainted with a great number of young girls, some of them good and true, but you have a character containing more than any three of them put together.  With this power, if properly managed, you can gain the almost universal love of your fellows.  But you are wild and wayward, you must curb and strain your spirit and bring it into subjection, else you will be worse than a person with the emptiest of characters.  You will find that plain looks will not prevent you from gaining the friendship love of your fellows—­the only real love there is.  As for the hot fleeting passion of the man for the maid, which is wrongfully designated love, I will not tell you not to think of it, knowing that it is human nature to demand it when arriving at a certain age; but take this comfort:  it as frequently passes by on the other side of those with well-chiselled features as those with faces of plainer mould.”

She turned her face away, sighed, and forgetful of my presence lapsed into silence.  I knew she was thinking of herself.

Love, not friendship love, for anyone knowing her must give her love and respect, but the other sort of love had passed her by.