I am seventeen--not sweet seventeen; there is nothing sweet about _me_. I am neither fair nor dark, nor tall nor short, nor indeed anything in particular that might distinguish me from the common herd. This is rather hard upon me, as all the rest of us can lay claim to beauty in one form or another. Thus, Roland, my eldest brother, is tall, very aristocratic in appearance, and extremely good to look at; Dora, who comes next, is small and exquisitely pretty, in a fresh fairy-like style; while Billy, the youngest born, has one of the handsomest faces imaginable, with liquid brown eyes of a gentle, pleading expression, that smile continually, and utterly belie the character of their owner. Why I was born at all, or why, my creation being a settled matter, I was not given to the world as a boy, has puzzled and vexed me for many years. I am entirely without any of the little graceful kittenish blandishments of manner that go far to make Dora the charming creature she is; I have too much of Billy's recklessness, mixed up with a natural carelessness of my own, to make me a success in the family circle. To quote papa in his mildest form, I am a "sad mistake," and one not easy to be rectified, while mother, who is the gentlest soul alive, reproves and comforts me from morning until night, without any result to speak of. I am something over five feet two, with brown hair and a brown skin, and eyes that might be blue or gray, according to fancy. My feet are small and well shaped, and so are my hands; but as for seventeen years I have borne an undying hatred towards gloves, these latter cannot be regarded with admiration. My mouth is of goodly size, and rather determined in expression; while as to my figure, if Roland is to be believed, it resembles nothing so much as a fishing-rod. But my nose--that at least is presentable and worthy of a better resting-place; it is indeed a most desirable nose in every way, and, being my only redeeming point, is one of which I am justly proud. Nevertheless, as one swallow makes no summer, so one feature will not beautify a plain face; and in spite of my Grecian treasure I still remain obscure. If not ornamental, however, I manage to be useful; I am an excellent foil to my sister Dora. She is beyond dispute our bright particular star, and revels in that knowledge. To be admired is sun and air and life to Dora, who resembles nothing in the world so much as an exquisite little Dresden figure, so delicate, so pink and white, so yellow-haired, and always so bewitchingly attired. She never gets into a passion, is never unduly excited. She is too pretty and too fragile for the idea, else I might be tempted to say that on rare occasions she sulks. Still, she is notably good-tempered, and has a positive talent for evading all unpleasant topics that may affect her own peace of mind.