Her's is the beauty to which a touch of sadness
adds a charm.
"How old are you?" I asked her.
"Twenty," she answered, "next birthday."
"I judged you to be older," I said.
"Most people do," she answered.
"My daughter Robina," I said, "is just the same age--according to
years; and Dick is twenty-one. I hope you will be friends with them.
They have got sense, both of them. It comes out every now and again
and surprises you. Veronica, I think, is nine. I am not sure how
Veronica is going to turn out. Sometimes things happen that make us
think she has a beautiful character, and then for quite long periods
she seems to lose it altogether. The Little Mother--I don't know why
we always call her Little Mother--will not join us till things are
more ship-shape. She does not like to be thought an invalid, and if
we have her about anywhere near work that has to be done, and are not
always watching her, she gets at it and tires herself."
"I am glad we are going to be neighbours," said Miss Janie. "There
are ten of us altogether. Father, I am sure, you will like; clever
men always like father. Mother's day is Friday. As a rule it is the
only day no one ever calls." She laughed. The cloud had vanished.
"They come on other days and find us all in our old clothes. On
Friday afternoon we sit in state and nobody comes near us, and we
have to eat the cakes ourselves. It makes her so cross.
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