Miss Euphrasia got up and walked over to her toilet-glass.  Do you think, with all her outgoing goodness, she had not enough in her for this, of that sweet woman-feeling that desires a true beauty-blossoming for each good season of life as it comes?  A pure, gentle showing, in face and voice and movement, of all that is lovely for a woman to show, and that she tells one of God’s own words by showing, if only it be true, and not a putting on of falseness?

If Miss Euphrasia had not cared what she would seem like in the eyes as well as to the heart of this brother coming home, there would have been something wanting to her of genuine womanhood.  Yet she had gone daily about her Lord’s business, thinking of that first; not stopping to watch the graying or thinning of hairs, or the gathering of life-lines about eyes and mouth, or studying how to replace or smooth or disguise anything.  She let her life write itself; she only made all fair, according to the sense of true grace that was in her; fair as she could with that which remained.  She had neither neglected, nor feverishly contrived and worried; and so at forty three she was just what Christopher, with his Scotch second-sight, beheld her; what she beheld herself now as she went to look at her face in the glass, and to guess what he would think of it.

She saw a picture like this:—­

Soft, large eyes, with no world-harass in them; little curves imprinted at the corners that may be as beautiful in later age as lip-dimples are in girlhood; a fair, broad forehead, that had never learned to frown; lines about mouth and chin, in sweet, honest harmony with the record of the eyes; no strain, no distortion of consciousness grown into haggard wornness; a fine, open, contented play of feature had wrought over all like a charm of sunshine, to soften and brighten continually.  Her hair had been golden-brown; there was plenty of it still; it had kept so much of the gold that it was now like a tender mist through which the light flashes and smiles.  Of all color-changes, this is the rarest.

Miss Euphrasia smiled at her own look.  “It is the home-face, I guess; Christie will know it.”  Smiling, she showed white edges of perfect teeth.

“What a silly old thing I am!” she said, softly; and she blushed up and looked prettier yet.

“Why, I will not be such a fool!” she exclaimed, then, really indignant; and sat down to read her second letter, which she had half forgotten:—­

“BRICKFIELD FARMS, (near Tillington), Maine.

“DEAR MISS EUPHRASIA,—­I have not written to you since we left Conway, because there seemed so little really to trouble you with; but your kind letter coming the other day made me feel as if I must have a talk with you, and perhaps tell you something which I did not fully tell you before.  We left our address with Mr. Dill, although except you, I hardly know of anybody from whom a letter would be likely to come.