of her
youth and purity Mrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some
others. But, comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked. She had been
humiliated and outraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved
and trusted. He had turned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid,
and here she was, one of the most estimably lovable and noble women I
have ever met.

"Come, Sybylla," she said, starting up brightly, "I have a plan--will you
agree to it? Come and take one good long look at yourself in the glass,
then I will turn it to the wall, and you must promise me that for three
or four weeks you will not look in a mirror. I will put as many as I can
out of your way, and you must avoid the remainder. During this time I
will take you in hand, and you must follow my directions implicitly. Will
you agree? You will be surprised what a nice-looking little girl I will
make of you."

Of course I agreed. I took a long and critical survey of myself in the
glass. There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough
work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round
figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to within an
inch or two of the knees. A very ugly spectacle, I thought. Aunt Helen
turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall, while I
remarked despondently, "you can make me only middling ugly, you must be a
magician."

"Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at
all. I'll take you in hand in the morning. I hope you will like your
room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you. And now good night, and
happy dreams."

I awoke next morning in very fine spirits, and slithering out of my bed
with alacrity, revelled--literally wallowed--in the appointments of my
room. My poor old room at Possum Gully was lacking in barest necessaries.
We could not afford even a wash-hand basin and jug; Gertie, the boys, and
myself had to perform our morning ablutions in a leaky tin dish on a
stool outside the kitchen door, which on cold frosty mornings was a
pretty peppery performance: but this room contained everything dear to
the heart of girlhood. A lovely bed, pretty slippers, dainty white
China-matting and many soft skins on the floor, and in one corner a most
artistic toilet set, and a wash-stand liberally supplied with a great
variety of soap--some of it so exquisitely perfumed that I felt tempted to
taste it. There were pretty pictur