quick-glancing dark eyes, her hair, that crimped naturally and fell
off in a deep, soft shadow from her temples, her little mouth,
neatly dimpled in, and the gypsy glow of her clear, bright skin. Dot
was different: she was dark too, not _so_ dark; her eyes were full,
brilliant gray, with thick, short lashes; she was round and
comfortable: nose, cheeks, chin, neck, waist, hands; her mouth was
large, with white teeth that showed easily and broadly, instead of,
like Ray's, with just a quiver and a glimmer. She was like her
mother. She looked the smart, buxom, common-sense village girl to
perfection. Ray had the hint of something higher and more delicate
about her, though she had the trigness, and readiness, and
every-day-ness too.

Sylvie sat silent after this, and looked at her, wondering, more
than she had wondered about the furniture. Thinking, "how many girls
there were in the world! All sorts--everywhere! What did they all
do, and find to care for?" These were not the "other" girls of whom
her mother had blandly said that she could show kindnesses by taking
them to drive. Those were such as Aggie Townsend, the navy captain's
widow's daughter,--nice, but poor; girls whom everybody noticed, of
course, but who hadn't it in their power to notice anybody. That
made such a difference! These were _otherer_ yet! And for all that
they were girls,--girls! Ever so much of young life, and glow, and
companionship, ever so much of dream, and hope, and possible story,
is in just that little plural of five letters. A company of girls!
Heaven only knows what there is _not_ represented, and suggested,
and foreshadowed there!

Sylvie Argenter, with all her nonsense, had a way of putting
herself, imaginatively, into other people's places. She used to tell