without turning
her head, replied, "Nobody wants to see me, I am so ugly and
disagreeable."

"Ugly are you?" repeated the boy, and at the same time lifting her up
and forcibly holding her hands, he succeeded in looking her fully in
the face, "Well, you are not very handsome, that's a fact," said he,
after satisfying his curiosity, "but I wouldn't be sullen about it.
Ugly people are always smart, and perhaps you are. Any way, I like
little girls, so just let me sit here and get acquainted."

Mary Howard, the child thus introduced to our readers, was certainly
not very handsome. Her features, though tolerably regular, were small
and thin, her complexion sallow, and her eyes, though bright and
expressive, seemed too large for her face. She had naturally a fine
set of teeth, but their beauty was impaired by two larger ones, which,
on each side of her mouth, grew directly over the others, giving to
the lower portion of her face a peculiar and rather disagreeable
expression. She had frequently been told that she was homely, and
often when alone had wept, and wondered why she, too, was not handsome
like her sister Ella, on whose cheek the softest rose was blooming,
while her rich brown hair fell in wavy masses about her white neck and
shoulders. But if Ella was more beautiful than Mary, there was far
less in her character to admire. She knew that she was pretty, and
this made her proud and selfish, expecting attention from all, and
growing sullen and angry if it was withheld.

Mrs. Howard, the mother of these children, had incurred the
displeasure of her father, a wealthy Englishman, by marrying her music
teacher, whose dark eyes had played the _mischief_ with her heart,
while his fingers played its accompaniment on the guitar. Humbly at
her father's feet she had knelt and sued for pardon, but the old man
was inexorable, and turned her from his house, cursing the fate which
had now deprived him, as it were, of his only remaining daughter. Late
in life he had married a youthful widow who after the lapse of a few
years died, leaving three little girls, Sarah, Ella, and Jane, two of
them his own, and one a step-daughter and a child of his wife's first
marriage.

As a last request Mrs. Temple had asked that her baby Jane should be
given to the care of her sister, Mrs. Morris who was on the eve of
embarking for America, and who within four weeks after her sister's
death sailed with her; young niece for Boston. Sarah, too, was