when they came to Florence both girls, Theodosia, Garrow's daughter,
and Harriet Fisher, her elder half-sister, were with them, and at
their second morning call both came with them.

The closest union and affection subsisted between the two girls, and
ever continued till the untimely death of Harriet. But never were two
sisters, or half-sisters, or indeed any two girls at all, more unlike
each other.

Harriet was neither specially clever nor specially pretty, but she
was, I think, perhaps the most absolutely unselfish human being I ever
knew, and one of the most loving hearts. And her position was one,
that, except in a nature framed of the kindliest clay, and moulded by
the rarest perfection of all the gentlest and self-denying virtues,
must have soured, or at all events crushed and quenched, the
individual placed in such circumstances. She was simply nobody in the
family save the ministering angel in the house to all of them. I
do not mean that any of the vulgar preferences existed which are
sometimes supposed to turn some less favoured member of a household
into a Cinderella. There was not the slightest shadow of anything of
the sort. But no visitors came to the house or sought the acquaintance
of the family for _her_ sake. She had the dear, and, to her, priceless
love of her sister. But no admiration, no pride of father or mother
fell to _her_ share. _Her_ life was not made brilliant by the notice
and friendship of distinguished men. Everything was for the younger
sister. And through long years of this eclipse, and to the last, she
fairly worshipped the sister who eclipsed her. Garrow, to do him
justice, was equally affectionate in his manner to both girls, and
entirely impartial in every respect that concerned the material
well-being of them. But Theodosia was always placed on a pedestal on