She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often
observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, and has
nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in complexion,
with her mother's blue eyes, and her mother's long dark wavy hair. She
was generally playful, and took greater liberties with me than any of the
others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, she knew instinctively
when, where, and how much. For on the borders of her playfulness there
seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, as if she felt that the
present moment owed all its sparkle and brilliance to the eternal sunlight.
And the appearance was not in the least a deceptive one. The eternal was
not far from her--none the farther that she enjoyed life like a bird, that
her laugh was merry, that her heart was careless, and that her voice rang
through the house--a sweet soprano voice--singing snatches of songs (now a
street tune she had caught from a London organ, now an air from Handel
or Mozart), or that she would sometimes tease her elder sister about her
solemn and anxious looks; for Wynnie, the eldest, had to suffer for her
grandmother's sins against her daughter, and came into the world with a
troubled little heart, that was soon compelled to flee for refuge to the
rock that was higher than she.
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