One of them, rosy, gray-headed, magnificent at sixty, was her
father, whose favourite she knew she was. He held out his hand to
her without closing the book that was in the other hand, and drew
her to the wide arm of his chair, where she settled herself with
her soft young body resting against him, her slim ankles crossed,
and her cheek dropped against his thick silver hair.

Alix was reading, and dreamily scratching her ankle as she read;
she was a tall, awkward girl, younger far at twenty-one than
Cherry was at eighteen, pretty in a gipsyish way, untidy as to
hair, with round black eyes, high, thin cheek-bones marked with
scarlet, and a wide, humorous mouth that was somehow droll in its
expression even when she was angry or serious. She was rarely
angry; she was unexacting, good-humoured, preferring animals to
people, and unconventional in speech and manner. Her father and
Anne sometimes discussed her anxiously; they confessed that they
were rather fearful for Alix. For Cherry, neither one had ever had
a disquieting thought.

Anne, smiling demurely over her white sewing, was a small,
prettily-made little woman, with silky hair trimly braided, and a
rather pale, small face with charming and regular features. She
was not considered exactly pretty; perhaps the contrast with
Cherry's unusual beauty was rather hard on both the older girls;
but she was so perfectly capable in her little groove, so busy,
contented, and necessary in the doctor's household, that it was
rather a habit with all their friends to praise Anne. Anne had
"admirers," too, Cherry reflected, looking at her to-night, but
neither she nor Alix had ever been engaged--engaged--engaged!