"Mrs. Withers!" he answered, suppressing a groan.

Rudely I laughed.

"Surely, Mavis," father continued plaintively, "you could never demand that I kiss—"

I laughed again. Mrs. Withers—ugly name, isn't it!—is the wife of our pastor. She is a good woman, but she possesses little charm.

I just touched my roses, with a cautious finger-tip.

"June has been here, you prosaic person," I said. "Witness these, and then deny it if you can."

Father, relieved, leaned back in my comfortable armchair. At least, I know it looks comfortable.

"I did not see her," he said. "That is, not until I entered this room, and found her wearing my daughter's most becoming face."

Father is so satisfactory! I'm sure I bridled.

"Bring me a mirror, immediately!" I demanded.

Father rose obediently to his lean height, and fumbled among the things on my dresser for the fat silver mirror, adorned with its charmingly ugly cupids, which had been my mother's.

"There, Miss Vanity!" he said. And while I studied my reflection, he studied me from under his bushy brows.

Finally, in silence, I gave him back the glass.

"Well?" asked father.

"Well?" I responded, which was not courteous.

"Do you find yourself prettier than yesterday?"

"Oh! Much!" I answered, with conviction.

After all, there are compensations in the possession 8 of a pointed face, decorated with big dark eyes, and a delightful mouth. My nose has never pleased me; but always, when I am gloomiest, my hair affords me consolation. Sarah makes a household pet of it, and cares for it devotedly. There's heaps of it. So much, that it makes my head ache to wear it piled high. So it generally lies in two long braids across the sheets.

8

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