us flowers in her hand
would have called her 'ugly' or even 'plain' any longer. The radiant
light in her eyes transfigured the small, pinched face of the demure
little being in its old-fashioned garments. Even critical modern
children would have forgotten everything else, and would have
exclaimed, 'She has the most beautiful eyes!'

What colour were her eyes? They were not blue, or black, or grey, or
brown, or hazel, or green, or yellow. Perhaps they were in truth more
yellow than anything else. They were full not only of sparkling lights
but also of deep velvety shadows that made it difficult to tell their
exact colour. Who can say the colour of a mountain stream that runs
over a pebbled bed? Every stone can be seen through the clear,
transparent water, but there are mysterious, shadowy darknesses in it
also, reflected from the overhanging banks. Little Mary Samm's eyes
were both clear and mysterious as such a mountain stream; while her
voice,--but hush! she is speaking again, her rather shrill, high tones
breaking the crisp silence of the March afternoon.

'Here is the posy, Aunt; will not dear grandfather love his pale
windflowers, come like stars to visit him in his prison? Only these
flower stars will not pass away quickly out of sight as do the real
stars we watch together through the bars every evening.'

Joan Dewsbury took the bunch of anemones from her niece's cold
fingers, laid it down carefully in Mary's rush basket and covered it
with a corner of the cloth. Had she been a 'nowadays aunt' she might
have thought that Mary was not unlike a windflower herself. The girl's
small white face was flushed faintly, like the ethereal white sepals;
there was a delicate, fragile fragrance about her as if a breath might
blow her away, yet there was an unconquerable air of determination
also in her every movement and gesture. But Joan Dewsbury was not a
'nowadays aunt'; she was a 'thenadays aunt,' and that was an entirely
different kind. She never thought of comparing a little girl, who had
come to take care of her grandfather in his prison, with the white,
starry flowers that came out in the wood so early, holding on tight to
the roots of the old tree, and blooming gallantly through all the
gales of spring. Joan Dewsbury's thoughts were full of different and,
to her, far more important matters than her niece's appearance. She
rose, and, after handing Mary her small rush basket and settling her
own larger one comfortably