sort of little person
about whom one can't help feeling rather frightened." And her eyes
looked to his for sympathetic understanding.

But his were interrogative. "No? Why should one feel frightened about
her?"

"Oh," said Maria Dolores, with a movement, "it isn't exactly easy to
tell why. One's fears are vague. But--well, for one thing, she thinks so
much about Death. Death and what comes after,--they interest her so
much. It doesn't seem natural, it makes one uneasy. And then she's so
delicate-looking. Sometimes she's almost transparent. In every way she
is too serious. She uses her mind too much, and her body too little. She
ought to have more of the gaiety of childhood, she ought to have other
children to romp with. She's too much like a disembodied spirit. It all
alarms one."

John, as she spoke, frowned, pondering. When she had done, his frown
cleared, he shook his head.

"I don't think it need," he said. "Her delicacy, her frailness, have
never struck me as indicating weakness,--they seem simply the proper
physical accompaniments of her crystalline little soul,--she's made of a
fine and delicate clay. She thinks about Death, it is true, but not in a
morbid way,--and that's a part of her ecclesiastical tradition; and she
thinks quite as much about life,--she thinks about everything. I agree
with you, it's a pity she has no other children. But she isn't by any
means deficient in the instincts of childhood. She can enjoy a chocolate
cigar, for instance, as well as another; and as for marchpane, I have
her own word that she adores it."

Maria Dolores gave another light trill of laughter.

"Yes, I'm aware of her passion for marchpane. She confided it to me this
morning. And as, in reply to her questions, I admitted that I rather
liked it myself, she very generously offered to bring me some this
afternoon,--which, to be sure, an hour ago, she did."

She laughed again, and John laughed too.

"All the same" she insisted, "I can't help that feeling of uneasiness
about her. Sometimes, when I look at her, I can almost see her wings.
What will be her future, if she grows up? One would rather not think of
her as married to some poor Italian, and having to give herself to the
prosaic sort of existence that would mean."

"The sordid sort of existence," augmented John. "No, one would decidedly
rather not. But she will never marry. She will enter religion. Her
uncle has it all planned out. He destines her for the Servi