concentrated in her hair; red as a flame and rippled as a river under a
fresh breeze. There was so much of it, too, the little head seemed bowed
in apology beneath its weight.

Yet for the time being Meg forgot to be apologetic about her hair, for
Anthony and his girls frankly admired it.

These adorable, kind, amusing people actually admired it, and said so.
Hitherto Meg's experience had been that it was a thing to be slurred
over, like a deformity. If mentioned, it was to be deprecated. In the
strictly Evangelical circles where hitherto her lot had been cast, they
even tried vainly to explain it away.

She had, of course, heard of artists, but she never expected to meet
any. That sort of thing lay outside the lives of those who had to make
their living as quickly as possible in beaten tracks; tracks so
well-beaten, in fact, that all the flowers had been trodden underfoot
and exterminated.

Meg, at sixteen, had received so little from life that her expectations
were of the humblest. And as she stood before the glass in a pretty
bedroom, fastening her one evening dress (of shiny black silk that
crackled, made with the narrow V in front affected by Mrs. Ross-Morton),
preparatory to going to the play for the first time in her life, she
could have exclaimed, like the little old woman of the story, "This be
never I!"

Anthony Ross was wholly surprising to Meg.

This handsome, merry gentleman with thick, brown hair as crinkly as her
own; who was domineered over and palpably adored by these two, to her,
equally amazing girls--seemed so very, very young to be anybody's
father.

He frankly owned to enjoying things.

Now, according to Meg's experience, grown-up people--elderly
people--seldom enjoyed anything; above all, never alluded to their
enjoyment.

Life was a thing to be endured with fortitude, its sorrows borne with
Christian resignation; its joys, if there were any joys, discreetly
slurred over. Joys were insidious, dangerous things that might lead to
the leaving undone of obvious duties. To seek joy and insure its being
shared by others, bravely and honestly believing it to be an excellent
thing, was to Meg an entirely unknown frame of mind.

After the play, in Meg's room the three girls were brushing their hair
together; to be accurate, Jan was brushing Fay's and Meg admiring the
process.

"Have you any sisters?" Jan asked. She was always interested in people's
relations.

"No," said Meg. "There are, m