"What mischief?" she asked, with innocent wonder in her face. "No one would hurt me. Everybody is kind to me. But as you seem to care for it, I'll take Sally with me now and then. So here's a kiss, guardian, and we'll say no more about it." Time ripened, but did not beautify Sally. Her figure was awkward and ungainly, and her limbs had not the roundness or the grace of those of the Duchess. Her face was at once too young and too old for her age; you saw in it both the innocence and simplicity of the child and the wary look of the woman of the world who knows that snares abound. Her skin was as brown as a berry, and her form appeared lank and thin, although she and the Duchess were of the same height. Undressing one night, they stood, with bare shoulders, side by side, looking into the glass. The contrast was very striking, and both saw and felt it, the Duchess with a joyous palpitation because of her beauty, and Sally with no repining because of her lack of it. The contrast was striking even in the quality and fashion of their linen, Sally's being coarse, and brown as the skin it covered, and the Duchess's being white and fine, with delicate edgings about it. "I don't believe," said Sally, with tender admiration, her brown arm embracing the Duchess's white shoulder, "that there's another girl in the world with such a skin, and such eyes, and altogether as pretty as you are, Duchess." "Do you really mean it, Sally?" asked the Duchess, as though the observation were made for the first instead of the thousandth time. "You know I do." "I think you do," said the Duchess, showing her teeth of pearl. "But if I were to say the same of myself, you'd say I was the vainest instead of the prettiest girl that breathes." "A girl can't help knowing she's pretty," said Sally philosophically; she had imbibed much of the spirit and some of the peculiarities of Seth's utterances, "if she is pretty; and can't help being glad of it. As you are, of course, Duchess." "Yes, I _am_ glad, Sally; I can't tell you how glad. I should be a miserable girl if I were like----" She paused suddenly, with a guilty blush, being about to say, "if I were like you, Sally." Sally smiled. "I don't doubt I should be glad if I had a skin as white, and eyes as blue, and lips as red as yours; but for all that, I don't seem to be sorry because I am ugly. For I _am_ very ugly!" She gazed at the reflection of herself in the glass with eyes that were almost merry, and despite her self-depreciation there was something very attractive in her appearance. The grace of youth was hers, and the kindliness and unselfishness of her nature imparted a charm to her face which mere beauty of feature could not supply. "You are not so very ugly," observed the Duchess. "No?" questioned Sally. "No. You are as good-looking as most of the girls in Rosemary Lane----" "Leaving you out," interrupted Sally quickly.