Still less did she ever do with her pen, what an artistic family of children used to threaten to do with their pencils when they were vexed with each other, namely, to “draw you ugly.”

It was one of the strongest features in my sister’s character that she “received but what she gave,” and threw such a halo of sympathy and trust round all with whom she came in contact, that she seemed to see them “with larger other eyes than ours,” and treated them accordingly.  On the whole, I am sure this was good in its results, though the pain occasionally of awakening to disappointment was acute; but she generally contrived to cover up the wound with some new shoot of Hope.  On those in whom she trusted I think her faith acted favourably.  I recollect one friend whose conscience did not allow him to rest quite easy under the rosy light through which he felt he was viewed, saying to her:  “It’s the trust that such women as you repose in us men, which makes us desire to become more like what you believe us to be.”

If her universal sympathy sometimes led her to what we might hastily consider “waste her time” on the petty interests and troubles of people who appeared to us unworthy, what were we that we should blame her?  The value of each soul is equal in God’s sight; and when the books are opened there may be more entries than we now can count of hearts comforted, self-respect restored, and souls raised by her help to fresh love and trust in God,—­ay, even of old sins and deeds of shame turned into rungs on the ladder to heaven by feet that have learned to tread the evil beneath them.  It was this well-spring of sympathy in her which made my sister rejoice as she did in the teaching of the now Chaplain-General, Dr. J.C.  Edghill, when he was yet attached to the iron church in the South Camp, Aldershot.  “He preaches the gospel of Hope,” she said—­hope that is in the latent power which lies hidden even in the worst of us, ready to take fire when touched by the Divine flame, and burn up its old evil into a light that will shine to God’s glory before men.  I still possess the epitome of one of these “hopeful” sermons, which she sent me in a letter after hearing the chaplain preach on the two texts:  “What meanest thou, O sleeper? arise, call upon thy God”; “Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.”

It has been said that, in his story of “The Old Bachelor’s Nightcap,” Hans Andersen recorded something of his own career.  I know not if this be true, but certainly in her story of “Madam Liberality"[1] Mrs. Ewing drew a picture of her own character that can never be surpassed.  She did this quite unintentionally, I know, and believed that she was only giving her own experiences of suffering under quinsy, in combination with some record of the virtues of One whose powers of courage, uprightness, and generosity under ill-health she had always regarded with deep admiration.  Possibly the virtues were hereditary,—­certainly the original owner of them was a relation; but, however this may be, Madam Liberality bears a wonderfully strong likeness to my sister, and she used to be called by a great friend of ours the “little body with a mighty heart,” from the quotation which appears at the head of the tale.