But though not indulged, I do think I was rather spoilt; that's to say, I was made too much of, and I got to think myself too important, nobody being to blame particularly. I suppose there's no denying that I was a pretty girl. I had dark eyes, and short curly brown hair, and a colour that came and went at a word. Then mother had trained me to be as particular as a lady about my dress and hair and hands. That does make a difference, to be sure. Nobody can look nice, if she don't keep her hair in order; and the prettiest girl in the world isn't pretty with a smudge on her cheek. Father used to call me "his little wild rose," because of my colour and my shy manner; and Rupert used to talk of the way in which I dropped my eyes under their lashes. Rupert Bowman was our ticket-collector. When I was seventeen, which is the time I am chiefly thinking about, he was over nineteen, not tall, but broad and strong, and a perfect slave to me. He had an honest plain face of his own, and a blunt way of speaking, commonly, which I think came from bashfulness. There wasn't a thing I could not make Rupert do, if I chose. He lived near with his widowed mother, and a sister; and he was in and out among us all day. Father liked Rupert ever so! But about the spoiling,—I suppose it was a difficult thing to keep clear of. I had been a sickly child, often at home from school; and for years father and mother were in a fright every winter lest they should lose me. At seventeen I was much stronger, and had pretty well outgrown the weakness; but still I did not look strong, and they could not get over the habit of always watching and thinking about me. It was not my way to be cross-grained and discontented like most spoilt girls. I can remember being pretty nearly always happy. Good spirits are a gift worth having, and I had very good spirits. I liked seeing people, and I liked to know that they counted me pretty and clever. I liked still more to feel that I could make myself loved. People do like that, women more especially, perhaps; and I don't say that the feeling is in itself wrong. Only there is something wrong when a girl gets to be always thinking about herself, and doing everything for the sake of being admired or loved. She may be ever so pleasant, but none the less there's something wrong. One ought to have a better reason for doing. So I think that on the whole I had more of love and admiration in those days than is wholesome for anybody. The harm did not show itself outwardly, perhaps, but it worked inwardly. Nobody except mother ever crossed me; and she never did it in a sharp or vexing way. My father's name was James Phrynne. He was an old and trusted servant of the Company; and he had been station-master in Claxton for several years. Mother's name was Jane, and mine was Kate, or Kitty. I can remember so well one Saturday afternoon in June, that year when I was seventeen years old.