erfectly impossible for me to tell you how good and
lovely Kathleen was. It is all very well to try to describe
snow-capped mountains at sunrise, or a storm at sea, or moonlight at
Niagara, or a prairie on fire, or anything of that sort, but nobody
could tell you how good and lovely Kathleen was, so that you could
understand it. I suppose she was a good deal the sort of child that
you would be if you didn't put your elbows on the table, or your spoon
in your mouth, or slam the doors, or cry when your hair is combed, or
tease for things that you ought not to have, or whisper in company, or
talk out loud when there are older persons present, or leave your
playthings about when you are done with them, or get your clothes
soiled when you play out of doors, or want to play at all when you
ought to study your lessons, or ask to be allowed to sit up after
bed-time, or bite your nails, or cut your bread, or leave your spoon
in your cup instead of in your saucer, or take the biggest apple.

I don't say that Kathleen never did any of these things. I only say
that she was so good that you would have to leave off every one of
them or you would never catch up with her. If Kathleen had a fault, it
was that she was too good. If I were going to have anything to do with
her I would rather she should be a little bit worse than a single bit
better. I am so glad you are skipping this part, because I shouldn't
want you to try to be a bit worse than you are just for the sake of
pleasing me. And I don't mean by all this that Kathleen was one of
those children who are a bother all the time because they are so
good. She may have done things that she ought not to do sometimes. I
dare say she did. I know she did once. I will tell you all about that
in the next chapter. She was just a dear, sweet little girl, as bright
and merry and healthy as any little girl in the world ever was. And
you would think so yourself, if you had known her and were not so
jealous. If I should tell you that she was as pretty as she was good,
I don't suppose you would believe me. But she was, just as surely as I
am writing this book and you are reading it. I mean just as surely as
I am writing it. I am not sure yet whether you are reading it or not.

But Terence! Well, the less said about him the better. Still, I
suppose, I shall have to say something. He did every one of the things
that I have just mentioned. And it wasn't because he didn't know any
better; he seemed t