before her cynical and elfish regard. To say of a child that there is
something "unearthly" about it is, as a rule, to pay a compliment to
ethereal blue and gold. There was nothing ethereal about Sarah, and yet
she was unearthly enough. Squatting on the floor, her legs tucked under
her, her head thrust forward, her large black eyes staring at the wall,
her black hair almost alive in the shining intensity of its colours, she
had in her attitude the lithe poise of some animal ready to spring,
waiting for its exact opportunity.

When her mother, in a temper, struck her, she would push her hair back
from her face with a sharp movement of her hand and then would watch
broodingly and cynically for the next move. "You hit me again," she
seemed to say, "and you _will_ make a fool of yourself."

She was aware, of course, of a thousand influences in the house of
which her mother and Hortense had never the slightest conception. From
the cosy security of her cradle she had watched the friendly spirit who
had accompanied (with hostile irritation) her entrance into this world.
His shadow had, for a long period, darkened her nursery, but she
repelled, with absolute assurance, His kindly advances.

"I'm not frightened. I don't, in the least, want things made comfortable
for me. I can get along very nicely, indeed, without you. You're full of
sentiment and gush--things that I detest--and it won't be the least use
in the world for you to ask me to be good, and tender, and all the rest
of it. I'm not like your other babies."

He must have known, of course, that she was not, but, nevertheless, He
stayed. "I understand perfectly," He assured her. "But, nevertheless, I
don't give you up. You may be, for all you know, more interesting to me