Missy was small; her figure was perfect in its proportions; her hands and feet quite worth noticing for their beauty. She was not plump, rather slight than plump, and yet well rounded. Her head was well set on her shoulders, and she moved it deliberately, not rapidly, and while all her movements showed energy, she was not bustling. She was so _petite_ she was not severe: that was all that saved her. Her face was not pretty, her complexion was colorless, her eyes very light, her nose _retroussé_. Her hair was soft and fine and waving, and of a pretty color, though not light enough to be flaxen, and not bright enough to be golden. It had the fortunate attribute of looking picturesque and pleasant, whether arranged or disarranged. Missy had her own way of dressing herself, of course. Such an energetic young woman could not be indifferent to a subject of such moment. She dressed in the best and latest fashion, with her own modification as to color and style. Her dresses were almost always gray, or white, or black, and as little trimmed as possible, and she never wore ornaments. Whether this were matter of principle or taste, she had not yet announced. Certainly if the former, virtue was its own reward; for no ornaments could have brought color to her face, or added any grace to its irregular outline, and her arms and hands would have been spoiled by rings and bracelets: every link would have hid a beauty. To-night she wore a soft gray silk, with crêpe lisse ruffles at the throat and elbows, and grey silk stockings and pretty low shoes with high heels. Putting one hand on the mantel above her, she stretched out her foot to the blaze, and resting her toe on the andiron, looked down at it attentively, though probably absently. "I hope she will like it," she repeated. "What, your gray stocking or your new shoe? They are both lovely," said Mrs. Varian, trying to be gay. "No," said Missy, indignantly, withdrawing the pretty foot. "No--but it--all--the house--the place. Oh, mamma," and she went across to the sofa and threw herself in a low chair by it, "it _is_ a trial, isn't it?" "Yes, my child," said Mrs. Varian, with a gentle caress of the hand put out to her. "But if you do not want to alienate your brother, do not let him guess it." Missy gave an impatient movement. "Must I try to enter into his fool's paradise? I can't be sympathetic, I'm afraid, even to retain my present modest place in his affections." "But be reasonable, Missy. You knew he would sometime marry." "Sometime, yes, mamma. But I cannot think of such a boy as going to be married. It really is not decorous." "O my dear Missy. Think again. St. John is nearly twenty. It only seems absurd to us my dear, because--because--"