I remember then, again, when Rosamond was just growing to
womanhood, and was in high spirits at the prospect of spending a
season in London, and being presented at court. She was very
beautiful at that time--much handsomer than Ida. Her
"accomplishments" were talked of far and near in our country
circles. Few, if any, of the people, however, who applauded her
playing and singing, who admired her water-color drawings, who
were delighted at her fluency when she spoke French, and amazed
at her ready comprehension when she read German, knew how little
of all this elegant mental cultivation and nimble manual
dexterity she owed to her governess and masters, and how much to
her elder sister. It was Ida who really found out the means of
stimulating her when she was idle; Ida who helped her through all
her worst difficulties; Ida who gently conquered her defects of
memory over her books, her inaccuracies of ear at the piano, her
errors of taste when she took the brush and pencil in hand. It
was Ida alone who worked these marvels, and whose all-sufficient
reward for her hardest exertions was a chance word of kindness
from her sister's lips. Rosamond was not unaffectionate, and not
ungrateful; but she inherited much of her father's commonness and
frivolity of character. She became so accustomed to owe
everything to her sister--to resign all her most trifling
difficulties to Ida's ever-ready care--to have all her tastes
consulted by Ida's ever-watchful kindness--that she never
appreciated, as it deserved, the deep, devoted love of which she
was the object.
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