er to the sensitive mouth. "Hateful!" was the verdict.

Then with fumbling, unpractised hands Cynthia gathered her two long
shining braids and bound them around her head--somewhere she had seen
the fashion, and a feminine instinct appropriated it. Next she stepped
quietly to the window and broke off a deep yellow rose and a delicate
trailing bit of honeysuckle rich with bloom; these she wound with
intuitive skill in her twisted braids, the rose nestled close to the
left ear. Thus adorned she tested the mirror again. Gone now was the
ugly gown; gone was the awkward pose--the face that smiled out at the
young judge was a wonderful face with its secret promise of by and by.

"Oh! you pretty honey-girl!" There was absolute detachment and lack of
vanity in the words. The woman-nature of Cynthia was simply giving
homage to a young creature worthy its admiration. "Oh! I want to kiss
you and love you! I want you to kiss and love me!" And then the
denied craving for affection and fondling rose supreme. "I want to
cuddle you, honey--you are mighty sweet!"

The slow smile touched the lips of the reflection--the dear, slow smile
of Madam Bubble.

Cynthia pressed close to the old mirror and laid her lips to that
alluring creature she was some time to be!

"Honey!" she whispered, "dear, pretty honey-girl!" The tears clouded
the love-filled eyes; a sense of loneliness drove the rapture away, and
the hands fell limply.

Going to the window, Cynthia knelt down and, resting her arms upon the
sill, laid her pretty head upon them.

She was never to be wholly a child again. Never was she to let her
hair fall in the little-girl fashion. Something had happened to her,
and tracing the something back she realized that it had been done when
Sandy kissed her good-bye!

Vivid was the red now in the girl's face. Her South had brought the
bloom forth early, and she was unprepared and unlearned in its demands.

"I want--some one to love me!" No words formed the thought. "I
want----" Then all the ties of her barren young life were reviewed and
found inadequate. Presently the yearning eyes rested upon the old
painting of Queenie Walden. It was a miserable piece of work; an
indefinite likeness, but it held the gaze and the fancy of the girl
upon the floor. "I want--my mother!" The hunger and longing brought
fresh tears to the aching eyes. "Mother!" She had always known the
relationship, and had always guarded it as a sa