and Irene curled her chin up, in a little way she had,
and said, "How ridiculous!" to her sister.

"Well, I can tell you what," said the Colonel, in fond
enjoyment of their young ladyishness, "your mother wa'n't
ashamed to sit with me on a trestle when I called her out
to look at the first coat of my paint that I ever tried on a house."

"Yes; we've heard that story," said Penelope, with easy
security of her father's liking what she said.
"We were brought up on that story."

"Well, it's a good story," said her father.

At that moment a young man came suddenly in range, who began
to look up at the signs of building as he approached.
He dropped his eyes in coming abreast of the bay-window,
where Lapham sat with his girls, and then his face lightened,
and he took off his hat and bowed to Irene. She rose
mechanically from the trestle, and her face lightened too.

She was a very pretty figure of a girl, after our
fashion of girls, round and slim and flexible,
and her face was admirably regular. But her great
beauty--and it was very great--was in her colouring.
This was of an effect for which there is no word
but delicious, as we use it of fruit or flowers.
She had red hair, like her father in his earlier days,
and the tints of her cheeks and temples were such as
suggested May-flowers and apple-blossoms and peaches.