My cousin Fanny was an old maid; indeed, to follow St. Paul's turn of phrase, she was an old maid of the old maids. No one who saw her a moment could have doubted it. Old maids have from most people a feeling rather akin to pity-a hard heritage. They very often have this feeling from the young. This must be the hardest part of all-to see around them friends, each a happy mother of children, little ones responding to affection with the sweet caresses of childhood, whilst any advances that they, their aunts or cousins, may make are met with indifference or condescension. My cousin Fanny was exception. She was as proud as Lucifer; yet she went through life-the part that I knew of-bearing the pity of the great majority of the people who knew her.