er.' She was not only shy: she was
also at times very grave. Her niece Anna is inclined to think that
Cassandra was the more equably cheerful of the two sisters. There was,
undoubtedly, a quiet intensity of nature in Jane for which some critics
have not given her credit. Yet at other times she and this same niece
could joke so heartily over their needlework and talk such nonsense
together that Cassandra would beg them to stop out of mercy to her, and
not keep her in such fits of laughing. Sometimes the laughter would be
provoked by the composition of extempore verses, such as those given in
the _Memoir_[211] celebrating the charm of the 'lovely Anna'; sometimes
the niece would skim over new novels at the Alton Library, and reproduce
them with wilful exaggeration. On one occasion she threw down a novel on
the counter with contempt, saying she knew it must be rubbish from its
name. The name was _Sense and Sensibility_--the secret of which had been
strictly kept, even from her.

The niece who shared these hearty laughs with her aunts--James's eldest
daughter, Anna--differed widely from her cousin, Edward's daughter,
Fanny. She was more brilliant both in looks and in intelligence, but
also more mercurial and excitable. Both occupied a good deal of Jane's
thoughts and affections; but Anna must have been the one who caused her
the most amusement and also the most anxiety. The interest in her was
heightened when she became engaged to the son of Jane's old friend, Mrs.
Lefroy. Anna's giddiness was merely that of youth; she settled down into
a steady married life as the careful mother of a large family. She
cherished an ardent affection for her Aunt Jane, who evidently exercised
a great influence on her character.

Jane Austen's literary work was done mainly in the general sitting-room:
liable at any moment to be interrupted by servants, children, or
visitors--to none of whom had been entrusted the secret of her
authorship. Her small sheets of paper could easily be put away or
covered with blotting-paper, whenever the creaking swing-door (which she
valued for that reason) gave notice that anyone was coming.

Her needlework was nearly always a garment for the poor; though she had
also by her some satin stitch ready to take up in case of the appearance
of company. The nature of the work will help to contradict an
extraordinary misconception--namely, that she was indifferent to the
needs and claims of the poor: an idea probably b