eeded in blinding her eyes to the very obvious
defects of feature which the mirror portrayed. But suddenly, sharply,
her eyes were opened.

"Did it ever occur to you, Bridgie, my dear, that I've grown-up
_plain_?" she demanded of her sister, Mrs Victor, as the two sat by the
fire one winter afternoon, partaking luxuriously of strong tea and
potato cakes, and at the sound of such a surprising question Mrs Victor
started as if a crack of thunder had suddenly pealed through the quiet
room. She stared in amazement; her big, grey eyes widened dramatically.

"My good child," she demanded sternly, "whatever made you think of
asking such a preposterous question?"

"'Twas borne in on me!" sighed Pixie sadly. "It's the way with life; ye
go jog-trotting along, blind and cheerful, until suddenly ye bang your
head against a wall, and your eyes are opened! 'Twas the same with me.
I looked at myself every day, but I never saw. Habit, my dear,
blindfolded me like a bandage, and looking at good-looking people all
day long it seemed only natural that I should look nice too. But this
morning the sun shone, and I stood before the glass twisting about to
try on my new hat, and, Bridgie, the truth was revealed! _My nose_!"

"What's the matter with your nose?" demanded Mrs Victor. Her own
sweet, delicately cut face was flushed with anger, and she sat with
stiffened back staring across the fireplace as if demanding compensation
for a personal injury.

Pixie sighed, and helped herself to another slice of potato cake.

"It scoops!" she said plaintively. "As you love me, Bridgie, can you
deny it scoops?" And as if to illustrate the truth of her words she
twisted her head so as to present her little profile for her sister's
inspection.

Truly it was not a classic outline! Sketched in bare outline it would
have lacerated an artist's eye, but then more things than line go to the
making up a girlish face: there is youth, for instance, and a blooming
complexion; there is vivacity, and sweetness, and an intangible
something which for want of a better name we call "charm." Mrs Victor
beheld all these attributes in her sister's face, and her eyes softened
as they looked, but her voice was still resentful.

"Of course it scoops. It always _did_ scoop. I like it to scoop."

"I like them straight!" persisted Pixie. "And it isn't as if it stopped
at the nose. There's my mouth--"

Bridgie's laugh had a tender, reminiscent ring.

"