life seems to some than to others. Jane Austen,
while her existence lasted, realised it, and made the best use of the
gifts that were hers. Yet, when her life was ending, then it was given
to her to understand the change that was at hand; as willingly as she
had lived, she died. Some people seem scarcely to rise up to their own
work, to their own ideal. Jane Austen's life, as it is told by her
nephew, is beyond her work, which only contained one phase of that
sweet and wise nature--the creative, observant, outward phase. For her
home, for her sister, for her friends, she kept the depth and tenderness
of her bright and gentle sympathy. She is described as busy with her
neat and clever fingers sewing for the poor, working fanciful keepsakes
for her friends. There is the cup and ball that she never failed to
catch; the spillikens lie in an even ring where she had thrown them;
there are her letters, straightly and neatly folded, and fitting
smoothly in their creases. There is something sweet, orderly, and
consistent in her character and all her tastes--in her fondness for
Crabbe and Cowper, in her little joke that she ought to be a Mrs.
Crabbe. She sings of an evening old ballads to old-fashioned tunes with
a low sweet voice.

Further on we have a glimpse of Jane and her sister in their mobcaps,
young still, but dressed soberly beyond their years. One can imagine
'Aunt Jane,' with her brother's children round her knee, telling her
delightful stories or listening to theirs, with never-failing sympathy.
One can fancy Cassandra, who does not like desultory novels, more
prudent and more reserved, and somewhat less of a playfellow, looking
down upon the group with elder sister's eyes.

Here is an extract from a letter written at Steventon in 1800:--

'I have two messages: let me get rid of them, and then my paper will be
my own. Mary fully intended writing by Mr. Charles's frank, and only
happened entirely to forget it, but will write soon; and my father
wishes Edward to send him a memorandum of the price of hops.

'_Sunday Evening._
'We have had a dreadful storm of wind in the forepart of the day, which
has done a great deal of mischief among our trees. I was sitting alone
in the drawing-room when an odd kind of crash startled me. In a moment
afterwards it was repeated. I then went to the window. I reached it just
in time to see the last of our two highly valued elms desc