ng testimony of Lady
Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.

"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
for she presently added,

"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully
her last landscape is done!"

"Beautifully indeed! But SHE does every thing well."

Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

"This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to
us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think
and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,
to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than
she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they
were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
said in a low, but eager, voice,

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make YOU unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were