she made the amplest and speediest amends by dying within twelve
months, and leaving a daughter who in no way resembled her. The husband
survived her just a dozen years.

Dorothea, the daughter, was a plain girl; her brothers, though kind and
fond of her after a fashion, did not teach her to forget it. She loved
them, but her love partook of awe: they were so much cleverer, as well
as handsomer, than she. Having no mother or friend of her own sex to
imitate, she grow into an awkward woman, sensitive to charm in others
and responding to it without jealousy, but ignorant of what it meant or
how it could be acquired. She picked up some French from her brother
Endymion, and masters were hired who taught her to dance, to paint in
water colours, and to play with moderate skill upon the harp. But few
partners had ever sought her in the ballroom; her only drawings which
anyone ever asked to see were half-a-dozen of the Bayfield pavement,
executed for Narcissus' monograph; and her harp she played in her own
room. Now and then Endymion would enquire how she progressed with her
music, would listen to her report and observe: "Ah, I used to do a
little fiddling myself." But he never put her proficiency to the test.

Somehow, and long before the world came to the same conclusion, she had
resolved that marriage was not for her. She adored babies, though they
usually screamed at the sight of her, and she thought it would be
delightful to have one of her own who would not scream; but apart from
this vague sentiment, she accepted her fate without sensible regret.
By watching and copying the mistresses of the few houses she visited
she learned to play the hostess at Bayfield, and, as time brought
confidence, played it with credit. She knew that people laughed at her,
and that yet they liked her; their liking and their laughter puzzled
her about equally. For the rest, she was proud of Bayfield and content,