even a glance in the mirror. I took not a particle of interest in my
attire, and would go about dressed anyhow. This was one symptom which
inclined my mother to the belief of my possible insanity, as to most
young girls dress is a great delight. I had tried once or twice to make
myself look nice by dressing prettily, but, by my own judgment,
considering I looked as ugly as ever, I had given it up as a bad job.

The time which I should have spent in arranging my toilet passed in
gazing at my mother's portrait. It was one of the loveliest faces
imaginable. The features may not have been perfect according to rule of
thumb, but the expression was simply angelic--sweet, winning, gentle, and
happy. I turned from the contemplation of it to another photograph--one of
my father--in a silver frame on the dressing-table. This, too, was a fine
countenance, possessed of well-cut features and refined expression. This
was the prince who had won Lucy Bossier from her home. I looked around my
pretty bedroom--it had been my mother's in the days of her maidenhood. In
an exclusive city boarding-school, and amid the pleasant surroundings of
this home, her youth had been spent.

I thought of a man and his wife at Possum Gully. The man was blear-eyed,
disreputable in appearance, and failed to fulfil his duties as a father
and a citizen. The woman was work-roughened and temper-soured by endless
care and an unavailing struggle against poverty. Could that pair possibly
be identical with this?

This was life as proved by my parents! What right had I to expect any
better yield from it? I shut my eyes and shuddered at the possibilities
and probabilities of my future. It was for this that my mother had
yielded up her youth, freedom, strength; for this she had sacrificed the
greatest possession of woman.