irregularly timed succession of governesses.

Stephen's affection for her 'Auntie' was never affected by any of the
changes. Others might come and go, but there no change came. The
child's little hand would steal into one of the old lady's strong
ones, or would clasp a finger and hold it tight. And then the woman
who had never had a child of her own would feel, afresh each time, as
though the child's hand was gripping her heart.

With her father she was sweetest of all. And as he seemed to be
pleased when she did anything like a little boy, the habit of being
like one insensibly grew on her.

An only child has certain educational difficulties. The true
learning is not that which we are taught, but that which we take in
for ourselves from experience and observation, and children's
experiences and observation, especially of things other than
repressive, are mainly of children. The little ones teach each
other. Brothers and sisters are more with each other than are
ordinary playmates, and in the familiarity of their constant
intercourse some of the great lessons, so useful in after-life, are
learned. Little Stephen had no means of learning the wisdom of give-
and-take. To her everything was given, given bountifully and
gracefully. Graceful acceptance of good things came to her
naturally, as it does to one who is born to be a great lady. The
children of the farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom at times she
played, were in such habitual awe of the great house, that they were
seldom sufficiently at ease to play naturally. Children cannot be on
equal terms on special occasions with a person to whom they have been
taught to bow or courtesy as a public habit. The children of