Olive was standing at the window, with a thoughtful face. Any one who remembered seeing her on the porch one evening, a little over two years ago, and recalled her face then, compared to what it was now, would have said in incredulous amaze: "What a change!" She was now nearly seventeen, though she looked every day of twenty, both in face and figure. There was such a settled, purposeful look in the face, and so much strength and soul looking out from the eyes, that had been used to scowling fiercely, so much determination expressed in the mouth, that had caught the trick of smiling much more readily than it once had. Nor was this all of the change either; she had come to realize that care in personal attire, and a study of pleasing others, could frame the most unattractive in attractive guise, and indeed, they had done their work for her. Instead of wearing the very things that she knew did not harmonize with her peculiar dark complexion, she studied what was becoming. Her hair, which was luxuriously long and heavy, she wore in such a manner as to soften the severe outline to head and face, and waved it deeply in front, so that curly tendrils of hair lessened the height of her too-high brow, and gave a more girlish look to the thoughtful face. In short, the Olive of two years ago was not much like the Olive of to-day, and in what her character had changed, I leave you to find out for yourself. She stood there, looking out, and something pleasing, evidently, caught her eye, for it brightened suddenly, then in a moment a look of regret chased the smile from her face. "What is it, dear?" inquired Mrs. Dering. "What, mama?" "The faces of my girls are so dear to me, that I can read them quickly. Something pleased you, then brought an after-thought that was sad. What was it?" "Nothing. I only saw Bea coming with Dr. Barnett."