ne of Dr. Kennedy's reputed wealth.
Janet had seen that everything was done for the comfort of the travelers, and then out behind the smokehouse had scolded herself soundly for crying, when she ought to appear brave, and encourage her young mistress. Not the slightest hint had she received that she was not to follow them in a few, weeks, and when at parting little Maude clung to her skirts, beseeching her to go, she comforted the child by telling her what she would bring her in the autumn, when she came. Half a dozen dolls, as many pounds of candy, a dancing jack, and a mewing kitten were promised, and then the faithful creature turned to the weeping bride, who clasped her hard old hand convulsively, for she knew it was a long good-by. Until the carriage disappeared from view did Mrs. Kennedy look back through blinding tears to the spot where Janet stood, wiping her eyes with a corner of her stiffly starched white apron, and holding up one foot to keep her from soiling her clean blue cotton stockings,
Mary J. Holmes' novels might be considered the cheap romances of her time, but the more chaste, romantic and charming Victorian romance can't be compared to the lusty, overt modern counterparts, though they can be lusty and baudy in their own simpler Victorian way. Cousin Maude is like a light version of something by a Bronte. The heroine's tragic love, tragic life, has many similarities with the loftier Bronte characters, but Holmes is a master of simplistic, light reading. I thoroughly enjoyed the book and have read my antique copy many times. It is still no Jane Eyre, and it is only because it is not on a par with other, similar novels that I don't rate it higher. If I rated it on pure enjoyment, without comparing it to other works, it would be a five in a heartbeat.