There was no fairer skin nor sweeter face than Betty Pickering's. The
expression of her great brown eyes, with their arching brows, was so
demure as to give the impression that somewhere back in the shadow of
their long, thick lashes lurked a fund of laughter and harmless mischief
as charming as it was apparently latent. Her form was of the partridge
fashion, though not at all too plump, and her hands, which were white and
soft as any lady's, were small and dimpled at every knuckle. Her little
feet and ankles--but we shall stop at the ankles.
Betty was unusually rich in dimples, having one in each cheek and a half
score or more about her lips and chin whenever she smiled. She was well
aware of the beauty of her dimples and her teeth; therefore, like a
sensible girl that she was, she smiled a great deal, both from feminine
policy and natural inclination. In short, Bettina was a Hebe in youth and
beauty, and soon after I learned to know her, I learned also that she was
an earthly little angel in disposition. It may appear from the enthusiasm
of this description that there was a time in my life when I was in love
with her. I admit it--desperately in love with her.
To have Betty's services at the Old Swan was a favor enjoyed only by her
friends and guests of the highest quality. She was not an ordinary
barmaid, though she had friends whom she delighted to honor. Among these
were Hamilton and myself, we having visited the Old Swan frequently prior
to the time of Hamilton's going to France.
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