Lucy was not in the least what she had expected,--that was certain. In the delicate oval face there was no trace of Thomas's heavily modeled features; nor was Lucy indebted to the Websters for her aureole of golden hair, the purity of her blond skin, or her grave brown eyes. Thomas had been a massively formed, kindly, plain-featured man; but his daughter was beautiful. Even Ellen, who habitually scoffed at all that was fair and banished the aesthetic world as far from her horizon as possible, was forced to acknowledge this. In the proudly poised head, the small, swiftly moving hands, and the tiny feet there was a birdlike alertness which was the epitome of action. The supple body, however, lacked the bird's fluttering uncertainty; rather the figure bespoke a control that had its birth in an absence of all self-consciousness and the obedience of perfectly trained muscles to a compelling will. Without a shadow of embarrassment Lucy endured her aunt's inspection. "Anybody'd think," commented Ellen to herself in a mixture of indignation and amusement, "that she was a princess comin' a-visitin' instead of bein' a charity orphan." Yet although she fumed inwardly at the girl's attitude, she did not really dislike it. Spirit flashed in the youthful face, and Ellen admired spirit. She would have scorned a cringing, apologetic Webster. Unquestionably in her niece's calm assurance there was no hint of the dependent. As she stood serenely in the center of the room, Lucy's gaze wandered over her aunt's shoulder and composedly scanned every detail of the kitchen, traveling from ceiling to floor, examining the spotless shelves, the primly arranged pots and pans, the gleaming tin dipper above the sink. Then the roving eyes came back to the older woman and settled with unconcealed curiosity upon her lined and sharply cut features. Beneath the intentness of the scrutiny Ellen colored uneasily. "Well?" she demanded tartly. Lucy started. "You seem to have made up your mind about me," went on the rasping voice. "Am I what _you_ expected?" "No." The monosyllable came quietly. "What sort of an aunt were you lookin' for?" Lucy waited a moment and then replied with childlike directness: "I thought you'd be more like Dad. And you don't look in the least like an invalid." "You're disappointed I ain't sicker, eh?" commented Ellen grimly. "No, indeed," answered Lucy. "I'm glad to find you so strong. But it makes me feel you do not need me as much as I thought you did. You are perfectly able to take care of yourself without my help." "Oh, I can take care of myself all right, young woman," Ellen returned with an acid smile. "I don't require a nurse--at least not yet." Lucy maintained a thoughtful silence. "I don't quite understand why you sent for me," she presently remarked. "Didn't I write you I was lonesome?" "Yes. But you're not." Ellen laughed in spite of herself. "What makes you so sure of that?" "You don't look lonesome."