oakers by
continuing to live and even to strengthen, despite the fact of her
mother's consumptive end. Poor Mrs. Charles, who had seldom a chance of
opening her mouth on any topic, never avoided stating, as an article of
her faith, that all children of consumptive parents were doomed as
clearly as though their sentence had been passed by a hanging judge. It
was positively an insult to her and to many another anxious mother for
the progeny of consumptive parents to go on living. For such to wax
strong was against Nature, and in the teeth of medical experience.

Eunice had offended Nature, diddled the doctors, and looked all the
better for the offence. The pasty whiteness of her girlhood had given
place to a creamy freshness, which blended perfectly with her high
colour--so you see her red cheeks were not the flame of consumption, but
the bloom of health. Her colour was of that intensity which seems to
come from the atmosphere around the face, and to shine upon the skin as
a shaft of ruby light, carried by the sunbeams through a cathedral
window, glows on a marble statue.

Her features were pretty, but with no mere prettiness. They were marked
by character. The nose would have been a despised model for a Grecian;
the mouth not dollishly small, yet small, firm-set, the firmness being
saved from shrewish suggestion by an upward ending of the lips. Eunice
had a chin; a most essential quality in man and woman, sometimes
unhappily omitted. A chin that said: "Yes, I mean what I say; and I mean
to say what I mean." Eyes that--well, they were violet eyes, and what
more can one say? A forehead not high, but wide, to carry a wealth of
lustrous dark hair.

Eunice was no Diana in stature, for she had scarcely grown an inch in
all those years since we saw her with the caterpillar. She had sprung up
suddenly as a girl, and remained at the same height for womanhood to
clothe her. Perhaps five feet four. But do not let us condescend upon
such details. She was small, she was dainty; enough is said. Violet
eyes--more than enough!

It is not to be supposed that Eunice and Henry had ever been
sweethearts. That is altogether too rude a suggestion. What does a girl
of thirteen think of sweethearts? A lad of sixteen? They pick up the
conventional phrase, with its suggestion of friendship more intimate
than everyday acquaintance, from their elders; that is all. There may
possibly be a liking for each other, a liking more than for any other