e not been an
old maid, would sometimes have been beautiful--as, for instance,
occasionally, when she was playing at the piano in the evenings before
the candles were lighted. I recollect particularly once when she was
singing an old French love-song. Another time was when on a certain
occasion some one was talking about marriages and the reasons which led
to or prevented them. She sat quite still and silent, looking out of the
window, with her thin hands resting in her lap. Her head was turned away
from most of the people, but I was sitting where I could see her, and
the light of the evening sky was on her face. It made her look very
soft. She lifted up her eyes, and looked far off toward the horizon. I
remember it recalled to me, young as I was, the speech I had heard
some one once make when I was a little boy, and which I had thought so
ridiculous, that "when she was young, before she caught that cold, she
was almost beautiful." There was an expression on her face that made me
think she ought always to sit looking out of the window at the evening
sky. I believe she had brought me some apples that day when she came,
and that made me feel kindly toward her. The light on her hair gave it
a reddish look, quite auburn. Presently, she withdrew her eyes from the
sky, and let them fall into her lap with a sort of long, sighing breath,
and slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second some one jocularly
fired this question at her: "Well, Cousin Fanny, give us your views,"
and her expression changed back to that which she ordinarily wore.

"Oh, my views, like other people's, vary from my practice," she said.
"It is not views, but experiences, which are valuable in life. When I
shall have been married twice I will tell you."

"While there's life there's hope, eh?" hazarded some one; for teasing an
old maid, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate.

"Yes, indeed," and she left the room, smiling, and went up-stairs.

This was one of the occasions when her eyes looked well. There were
others that I remember, as sometimes when she was in church; sometimes
when she was playing with little children; and now and then when, as
on that evening, she was sitting still, gazing out of the window. But
usually her eyes were weak, and she wore the green shade, which gave her
face a peculiar pallor, making her look old, and giving her a pained,
invalid expression.

Her dress was one of her peculiarities. Perhaps it was because she made