er will be a character
when he grows old. He is so disagreeable at times."

"I thought you were so fond of Peter?" said John, looking amusedly
down on the little chatterbox beside him.

"Not exactly fond of him. It's just that I'm _used_ to him," said
Sarah, colouring all over her clear, fresh face, even to the little
tendrils of red hair on her white neck.

She wore a blue cotton frock, and a brown mushroom hat, with a wreath
of wild roses which had somewhat too obviously been sewn on in a hurry
and crookedly; and she looked far more like a village schoolgirl than
a young lady who was shortly to make her _debut_ in London society.
But he was struck with the extraordinary brilliancy of her complexion,
transparent and pure as it was, in the searching sunlight.

"If she were not so round-shouldered--if the features were better--her
expression softer," said John to himself--"if divine colouring were
all--she would be beautiful."

But her wide, smiling mouth, short-tipped nose, and cleft chin,
conveyed rather the impression of childish audacity than of feminine
charm. The glance of those bright, inquisitive eyes was like a wild
robin's, half innocent, half bold. Though her round throat were white
as milk, and though no careless exposure to sun and wind had yet
succeeded in dimming the exquisite fairness of her skin, yet the
defects and omissions incidental to extreme youth, country breeding,
and lack of discipline, rendered Miss Sarah not wholly pleasing in
John's fastidious eyes. Her carriage was slovenly, her ungloved hands
were red, her hair touzled, and her deep-toned voice over-loud and
confident. Yet her frankness and her trustfulness could not fail to
evoke sympathy.

"It is--Lady Mary that I am fond of," said the girl, with a yet more
vivid blush.

He was touched. "She will miss you, I am sure, when you go to town,"
he said kindly.

"If I thought so really, I wouldn't go," said Sarah, vehemently. She
winked a tear from her long eyelashes. "But I know it's only your good
nature. She thinks of nothing and nobody but Peter. And--and, after
all, when I get better manners, and all that, I shall be more of a
companion to her. I'm very glad to go, if it wasn't for leaving _her_.
I like Aunt Elizabeth, whereas mamma and I never _did_ get on. She
cares most for the boys, which is very natural, no doubt, as I was
only an afterthought, and nobody wanted me. And Aunt Elizabeth has
always liked me. She says I amuse he