girl enters. Ben's face lights
up. The sunshine has come.

There is something more than a suggestion of sunshine about Winifred
Anstice, even to those of us who are neither of the age nor the sex to
fall under the glamour of sentimental illusions. I have often
speculated on the precise nature of her charm, without being able to
satisfy myself. She is not so extraordinarily pretty, though her hair
ripples away from her forehead after the American classic fashion, to
which style also belongs the little nose, straight in itself, but set
on at an angle from the brow, which, to my thinking, forms a pleasing
variation from the heavier, antique type. The classic repose is wholly
lacking. The eyes are arch, bright, and a little daring; the mouth
always on the verge of laughter, which is not quite agreeable, for
sometimes when there is no visible cause for amusement, it gives one
an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he is being laughed at
unbeknown, and a person need not be very stingy not to relish a joke
at his expense.

Perhaps this sounds as if Winifred were hard, which she is not, and
unsympathetic, which she never could be; but it is not that at all. It
comes, I think, of a kind of bubbling over of the fun and spirits
which belong to perfect physical condition and which few girls have
nowadays. I suppose I ought not to wonder if a little of this vigor
clings to her manner, making it not hoidenish exactly, but different
from the manner of Beacon Street girls, who, after all said and done,
have certainly the best breeding of any girls the world over. Ben
doesn't admire Boston young ladies; but then he hates girls who are
what he calls "stiff," as much as I dislike those whom he commends as
"easy." Of course he gets on admirably with Winifred, who accepts his
adoration as a matter of course, and rewards him with a
semi-occasional smile, or a friendly note in her voice.

After all, Winifred's chief charm lies in her voice. For myself, I
confess to a peculiar sensitiveness in the matter of voices,--an
unfortunate peculiarity for one condemned to spend her life in a
sea-board town of the United States. Like Ulysses, I have endured
greatly, have suffered greatly; but when this girl speaks, I am
repaid. I often lose the sense of what she is saying, in the pure
physical pleasure of listening to her speech. It has in it a
suggestion of joy, and little delicate trills of hidden laughter
which, after all, is not laughter, but rat