eldom), a rigidity of feature and an
almost complete want of bosom gave her the appearance of a convalescent
boy.

If May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately on
Alice's shoulder, had been three inches taller, she would have been
classed a fine figure, but her features were too massive for her height.
Her hair was not of an inherited red. It was the shade of red that is
only seen in the children of dark-haired parents. In great coils it
rolled over the dimpled cream of her neck, and with the exception of
Alice, May was the cleverest girl in the school. For public inspection
she made large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for private
view, pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories with
young ladies. The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned
some discussion among a select few.

Violet Scully and May Gould would appeal to different imaginations.

Olive, Alice's sister, was more beautiful than either, but there was
danger that her corn-coloured hair, wound round a small shapely head,
might fail to excite more than polite admiration. Her nose was finely
chiselled, but it was high and aquiline, and though her eyes were well
drawn and coloured, they lacked personal passion and conviction; but no
flower could show more delicate tints than her face--rose tints fading
into cream, cream rising into rose. Her ear was curved like a shell, her
mouth was faint and weak as a rose, and her moods alternated between
sudden discontent and sudden gaiety.

'I don't see, Alice, why you couldn't have made King Cophetua marry the
Princess. Whoever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid? Besides, I
hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jilted
before them all isn't very nice. I am sure mamma wouldn't like it.'

'But you are not jilted, my dear Olive. You don't like the King, and you
show your nobleness of mind by refusing him.'

'I don't see that. Whoever refused a King?'

'Well, what do you want?' exclaimed May. 'I never saw anyone so selfish
in all my life; you wouldn't be satisfied unless you played the whole
piece by yourself.'

Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at
that moment visitors were coming up the drive.

'It's papa,' cried Olive.

'And he is with mamma,' said Violet; and she tripped after Olive.

Mr. Barton, a tall, handsome man, seemed possessed of all the beauty of
a cameo, and Olive had inherited