been vastly unlike her daughters."

I was quite unable to keep from laughing, but Cecilia did not seem to
see anything to laugh at. She never does, when people say funny things;
and she never says funny things herself. I cannot understand her. She
only laughs when she does something; and, nine times out of ten, it is
something in which I cannot see anything to laugh at--something which--
well, if it were not Cecilia, I should say was rather silly and babyish.
I never did see any fun in playing foolish tricks on people, and
worrying them in all sorts of ways. Hatty just enjoys it; but I don't.

However, before anything else was said, Father came in, and a young
gentleman with him, whom he introduced as Mr Anthony Parmenter, the
Vicar's nephew (He turned out to be the Vicar's grand-nephew, which, I
suppose, is the same thing.) I am sure he must have come from the
South. He did not shake hands, nor profess to do it. He just touched
the hand you gave him with the tips of his fingers, and then with his
lips, as if you were a china tea-dish that he was terribly frightened of
breaking. Cecilia seemed quite used to this sort of thing, but I did
not know what he was going to do; and, as for my Aunt Kezia, she just
seized his hand, and gave it a good old-fashioned shake, at which he
looked very much put out. Then she asked him how the Vicar was, and he
did not seem to know; and how long he was going to stay, and he did not
know that; and when he came, to which he said Thursday, in a very
hesitating way, as if he were not at all sure that it was not Wednesday
or Friday. One thing he knew--that it was hawidly cold--there, that is
just how he said it. I suppose he meant horribly. My Aunt Kezia gave
him up after a while, and went on sewing in silence. Then Cecilia took
him up, and they seemed to understand each other exactly. They talked
about all sorts of things and people that I never heard of before; and I
sat and listened, and so did my Aunt Kezia, only that she put in a word
now and then, and I did not.

Before they had been long at it, Fanny and Amelia came in from a walk,
in their bonnets and scarves, and Mr Parmenter bowed over their hands
in the same curious way that he did before. Amelia took it as she does
everything--that is, in a languid, limp sort of way, as if she did not
care about anything; but Fanny looked as if she did not know what he was
going to do to her, and I saw she was puzzled whether she o