ell, a comparison, then," answered Amelia, in a slightly peevish tone.

"That will do," said my Aunt Kezia. "I know what a comparison is.
Well, let us hear it."

"Do we not see," continued Amelia, with kindling eyes, "the beauty of
self-sacrifice in all things? In the patriot daring death for his
country, in the mother careless of herself, that she may save her child,
in the physician braving all risks at the bedside of his patient? Nay,
even in the lower world, when we mark how the insect dies in laying her
eggs, and see the fresh flowers of the spring arise from the ashes of
the withered blossoms of autumn, can we doubt the loveliness of
self-sacrifice?"

"How beautiful!" murmured Fanny. "Do listen, Cary."

"I am listening," I said.

"Charming, Madam!" said Mr Parmenter, stroking his mustachio.
"Undoubtedly, all these are lessons to those who have eyes to see."

I did not quite like the glance which was shot at him just then out of
Cecilia's eyes, nor the look in his which replied. It appeared to me as
if those two were only making game of Amelia, and that they understood
each other. But almost before I had well seen it, Cecilia's eyes were
dropped, and she looked as demure as possible.

"Some folk's eyes don't see things that are there," saith my Aunt Kezia,
"and some folk's eyes are apt to see things that aren't. My Bible tells
me that God hath made everything beautiful in its season. Not out of
its season, you see. Your beautiful self-sacrifice is a means to an
end, not the end itself. And if you make the means into the end, you
waste your strength and turn your action into nonsense. Take the
comparisons Amelia has given us. Your patriot risks death in order to
obtain some good for his country; the mother, that she may save the
child; the physician, that he may cure his patient. What would be the
good of all these sacrifices if nothing were to be got by them? My
dears, do let me beg of you not to be caught by claptrap. There's a
deal of it in the world just now. And silly stuff it is, I assure you.
Self-sacrifice is as beautiful as you please when it is a man's duty,
and as a means of good; but self-sacrifice for its own sake, and without
an object, is not beautiful, but just ridiculous nonsense."

"Then would you say, Aunt Kezia," asked Amelia, "that all those grand
acts of mortification of the early Christians, or of the old monks, were
worthless and ridiculous? They were not designed to