instead of one, at heart. There are few people whose youth has not
owned the influence of at least one such friend. It may be a good
habit, the first interest in some life-loved pursuit or favourite
author, some pretty feminine art, or delicate womanly counsel enforced
by those narratives of real life that are more interesting than any
fiction: it may be only the periodical return of gifts and kindness,
and the store of family histories that no one else can tell; but we all
owe something to such an aunt or uncle--the fairy godmothers of real
life.

The benefits which Sam and Dot reaped from Aunt Penelope's visits may
be summed up under the heads of presents and stories, with a general
leaning to indulgence in the matters of punishment, lessons, and going
to bed, which perhaps is natural to aunts and uncles who have no
positive responsibilities in the young people's education, and are not
the daily sufferers by the lack of due discipline.

Aunt Penelope's presents were lovely. Aunt Penelope's stories were
charming. There was generally a moral wrapped up in them, like the
motto in a cracker-bonbon; but it was quite in the inside, so to speak,
and there was abundance of smart paper and sugar-plums.

All things considered, it was certainly most proper that the
much-injured Dot should be dressed out in her best, and have access to
dessert, the dining-room, and Aunt Penelope, whilst Sam was kept
up-stairs. And yet it was Dot who (her first burst of grief being over)
fought stoutly for his pardon all the time she was being dressed, and
was afterwards detected in the act of endeavouring to push fragments of
raspberry tart through the nursery keyhole.