There was an old, cracked, dimmed mirror between the chimney-place and the window, and tiptoeing to that, Cynthia viewed herself as if for the first time in her life. The image was strange to her; confusing and half fearsome. It was not the reflection of the awkward, thin Cynthia Walden that she saw; Cynthia of the long braids of hair and short patched gingham gown of irregular length--owing to many washings and shrinkings. It was the reflection of something Cynthia was to be some day who looked back at the questioning girl. Slowly the colour rose to the pale face and the big eyes flinched. "Stand straighter!" commanded the inquisitor before the mirror. The shoulders braced, but too long had the slender neck bent forward to obey the sudden exertion now. Cynthia would always carry that waiting pose! The ugly checked gown next caught the critical eyes and the impotent hands pulled it down at the waist, while a sense of its unloveliness brought a quiver 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.