d expression, and in tint a deep, deep blue,
shaded, like Grace Truscott's, with curling lashes, not so long, but
thick and sweeping; her hair was too dark, perhaps, for the purity of
her blond complexion. It was a shining, wavy brown, very soft, thick,
and luxuriant. She would be far more striking, said her commentators,
had she real blond hair, but those who grew to know her well soon lost
sight of the defect. Her mouth was a trifle large, but her teeth were
perfect, and the lips so soft, so sweetly curved, that one readily
forgave the deviation from the strict rule of facial unity when watching
her frequent smiles. In stature she was perhaps below, as Grace was
above, the medium height of womanhood, but her figure was exquisite. Her
neck and arms were a soft and creamy white, and the perfection of
roundness and grace. "She must lace fearfully," was the invariable
comment of the sisterhood on first acquaintance. In truth, she did not
lace at all. It was a fault beyond her control, but her waist was
perhaps too small. Her hands and feet were not like Grace's, long and
slender. They were tiny, but her hand was plump and white and might be
compressible. It was undeniably pretty, and her foot was always so
stylishly shod that its shape was outlined most attractively.

But what would have made Marion Sanford attractive had she been simply
plain instead of pretty, was her manner. Cold and unsympathetic had been
the original school-girl verdict pronounced because of her distaste for
imparting confidences. This was amended in her second year, abandoned
in her third, and would have been attacked, if asserted, in her fourth.
Over no girl's departure was there such frantic lamentation among the
younger scholars as over Marion's. They had learned to love her. To all
who were her elders there was gentle deference, to her equals and
associates a frank and cordial bearing without degeneration into
"confidences." To younger girls and to children Marion Sanford was an
angel, the sweetest, the gentlest, the kindest, the most winning girl
that lived. No matter who was with her, no matter what her occupation,
for them she had ever smiles and sunshiny greeting. It was to her the
younger girls soon learned to go in homesickness or troubles, sure of
welcome to her arms and comfort in her sympathy; it was to her that the
wee toddlers were never afraid to run for "sweeties," or refuge from
pursuing nurse-maids; it was to her that girls of youn