"There are eyes and eyes," he smiled down. "Some are merely lenses to
see with and some are stars. Of the star kind, a few are lustrous and
miraculous, and control destinies. I think yours are like that. One can
flash lambent fire and the other can soften like the petals of a black
pansy--it has just that touch of inky purple--and in their range are
many possibilities."

"But--but," she stammered for a moment, irresolute and almost tearful,
"they aren't even mates and anyway eyes aren't all." For a moment she
hesitated, then with childish abandon confided, "I'd give anything in
the world to be pretty."

The stranger threw back his head and laughed. "And when they are misty,
let men beware," he commented half-aloud, then he went on: "What makes
you think you'll be ugly?"

"They call me spindle-legs at school and--and--" she broke off, failing
to particularize further.

The man glanced smilingly down at the slight figure.

"Well, now," he conceded, "in general effect you are a bit chippendale,
aren't you? But that can be outgrown. The rarest beauty isn't that which
comes before the 'teens. If you never have anything else, be grateful
for your eyes--and remember this afterward. Be merciful with them,
because unless I'm a poor prophet there will come times when you will do
well to remember that."

"I'm going to tell the boys and girls at school that I'm not ugly after