his arms
folded over his little pouter-pigeon chest, lips pursed, brows frowning,
dimples inhibited, gazing into the water. Just beyond, one foot on the
bottom, Peterkin pretended to swim. Peterkin had an unearthly beauty
that was half Clara's coloring--combination of tawny hair with
gray-green eyes--and half Pete's expression--the look, doubly strange,
of the Celt and the genius. Slender and beautifully formed, graceful, he
was in every possible way a contrast to virile little Billy-Boy; he was
even elegant; he had the look of a story-book prince. Far up the beach,
cuddled in a warm puddle, naked, sat a fat, redheaded baby, Frank
Merrill, junior. He watched the others intently for a while. Then
breaking into a grin which nearly bisected the face under the fiery
thatch, he began an imitative paddle with his pudgy hands and feet.

Flitting hither and yon, hovering one moment at the water's edge and
another at Junior's side, moving with a capricious will-o'-the-wisp
motion that dominated the whole picture, flew Angela.

Beautiful as the other children were, they sank to commonplaces in
contrast with Angela.

For Angela was a being of faery. Her single loose garment, serrated at
the edges, knee-length, and armless, left slits at the back for a pair
of wings to emerge. Tiny these wings were, and yet they were perfect
in form; they soared above her head, soft, fine, shining, delicate as
milkweed-down and of a white that was beginning, near the shoulders,
to deepen to a pale rose. Angela's little body was as slender as a
flower-stem. Her limbs showed but the faintest of curves, her skin but
the faintest of tints. Almost transparent in the sunlight, she had
in the shadow the coloring of the opal, pale rose-pinks and pale
violet-blues. Her hair floated free to her shoulders; and that, more
than any other detail, seemed to accent the quality of faery in her
personality. In calm it clung to her head like a pale-gold mist; in
breeze it floated away like a pale-gold nimbus. It seemed as though a
shake of her head would send it drifting off--a huge thistle-down
of gold. Her eyes reflected the tint of whatever blue they gazed on,
whether it was the frank azure of the sky or the mysterious turquoise of
the sea. And yet their look was strangely intent. When she passed
from shadow to sunshine, the light seemed to dissolve her hair and
wing-edges, as though it were gradually taking her to itself.

"Oh, yes, Peachy," Lulu said, "Ange