n't bother us, Cousin Mary. It would be
too bad to refuse her, wouldn't it? She can't spoil Clovelly--it's been
here too long. Anne is rather overpowering," Sally went on, a bit
wistfully. "She's such a beauty, and she has such stunning clothes."

The firelight played on the girl's flushed, always-changing face, full
of warm light and shadow; it touched daintily the white muslin and pink
ribbons of the pretty negligee she wore, Sally was one of the poor girls
whose simple things are always fresh and right. I leaned over and patted
her rough hair affectionately.

"Your clothes are just as pretty," I said, "and Anne doesn't compare
with you in my eyes." I lifted the unfinished letter and glanced over
it. "All about her visit to Lady Fisher," I said aloud, giving a resume
as I read. "What gowns she wore to what functions; what men were devoted
to her--their names--titles--incomes too." I smiled. "And--what is
this?" I stopped talking, for a name had caught my eye. I glanced over
the page. "Isn't this curious! Listen, my dear," I said. "This will
interest you!" I read aloud from Anne's letter.

"'But the man who can have me if he wants me is Sir Richard Leigh. He is
the very best that ever happened, and moreover, quite the catch of the
season. His title is old, and he has a yacht and an ancestral place or
two, and is very rich, they say--but that isn't it. My heart is his
without his decorations--well, perhaps not quite that, but it's
certainly his with the decorations. He is such a beauty, Cousin Mary!
Even you would admire him. It gives you quite a shock when he comes into
a room, yet he is so unconscious and modest, and has the most graceful,
fascinatingly quiet manners and wonderful brown eyes that seem to talk
for him. He does everything well, and everything hard, is a dare-devil
on horseback, a reckless sailor, and a lot besides. If you could see the
way those eyes look at me, and the smile that breaks over his face as if
the sun had come out suddenly! But alas! the sun has gone under now, for
he went this morning, and it's not clear if he's coming back or not.
They say his yacht is near Bideford, where his home is, and Clovelly is
not far from that, is it?'"

I stopped and looked at Sally, listening, on the floor. She was staring
into the fire.

"What do you think of that?" I asked. Sally was slow at answering; she
stared on at the burning logs that seemed whispering answers to the
blaze.

"Some girls have eve