delicate-looking. Sometimes she's almost transparent. In every way she
is too serious. She uses her mind too much, and her body too little. She
ought to have more of the gaiety of childhood, she ought to have other
children to romp with. She's too much like a disembodied spirit. It all
alarms one."

John, as she spoke, frowned, pondering. When she had done, his frown
cleared, he shook his head.

"I don't think it need," he said. "Her delicacy, her frailness, have
never struck me as indicating weakness,--they seem simply the proper
physical accompaniments of her crystalline little soul,--she's made of a
fine and delicate clay. She thinks about Death, it is true, but not in a
morbid way,--and that's a part of her ecclesiastical tradition; and she
thinks quite as much about life,--she thinks about everything. I agree
with you, it's a pity she has no other children. But she isn't by any
means deficient in the instincts of childhood. She can enjoy a chocolate
cigar, for instance, as well as another; and as for marchpane, I have
her own word that she adores it."

Maria Dolores gave another light trill of laughter.

"Yes, I'm aware of her passion for marchpane. She confided it to me this
morning. And as, in reply to her questions, I admitted that I rather
liked it myself, she very generously offered to bring me some this
afternoon,--which, to be sure, an hour ago, she did."

She laughed again, and John laughed too.

"All the same" she insisted, "I can't help that feeling of uneasiness