"Her mother was own sister to Miss Abrahama White, and Abrahama
White's mother and my mother were own cousins on the mother's side.
My mother was a White," she said. The voice came like a slender,
reedy whistle from between her moveless, widened lips. She stood as
if encased in armor. Her apron-strings stood out fiercely and were
quite evident over each hip. She held her head very high, and the
cords on her long, thin neck stood out.

Poor Rose Fletcher looked a little scared and a little amused. She
cast a glance at Horace, as if for help. He did not know what to say,
but tried manfully to say it. "I have never fully known, in such a
case," he remarked, "whether the relationship is second cousin or
first cousin once removed." It really seemed to him that he had never
known. He looked up with relief as Henry entered the room, and Sylvia
turned to him, still with her manners fully in evidence.

"Mr. Whitman, this is Miss Abrahama White's niece," said she.

She bowed stiffly herself as Henry bowed. He was accustomed to
Sylvia's company manners, but still he was not himself. He had never
seen a girl like this, and he was secretly both angry and alarmed to
note the difference between her and Sylvia, and all women to which he
had been used. However, his expression changed directly before the
quick look of pretty, childish appeal which the girl gave him. It was
Rose's first advance to all men whom she met, her little feeler put
out to determine their dispositions towards her. It was quite
involuntary. She was unconscious of it, but it was as if she said in
so many words, "Do you mean to be kind to me? Don't you like the look
of me? I mean entirely well. There is no harm in me. Please don't