intense that it impedes her progress. She cannot get on with her narrative because of the delight of lingering. Every circumstance of an uneventful childhood invites her attention. Other little girls cry now and then. Mothers and nurserymaids are aware of this fact. Other little girls hate to get up in the morning. Other little girls are occasionally impertinent to their parents. But no one else has ever recorded these details with such serious and sympathetic concern. A petulant word from an older sister (most of us have lived through something of the kind) made her resolve "never to tell anybody anything again." This resolution was broken. She has told everybody everything, and the telling must have given her days, and weeks, and months of undiluted pleasure.
Miss Martineau's life was in the main a successful one. It is natural that she should have liked to think about it, and
