thoughtful than girls usially are. It seemed as if her great dark eyes wus
full of wisdom beyend--fur beyend--her years, and sweetness too. Never wus
there any sweeter eyes under the heavens than those of our niece Cicely.

She wus very fair and pale, you would think at first; but, when you would
come to look closer, you would see there was nothing sickly in her
complexion, only it was very white and smooth,--a good deal like the pure
white leaves of the posy Sweet Cicely. She had a gentle, tender mouth,
rose-pink; and her cheeks wuz, when she would get rousted up and excited
about any thing; and then it would all sort o' die out again into that
pure white. And over all her face, as sweet and womanly as it was, there
was a look of power, somehow, a look of strength, as if she would venture
much, dare much, for them she loved. She had the gift, not always a happy
one, of loving,--a strength of devotion that always has for its companion-
trait a gift of endurance, of martyrdom if necessary.

She would give all, dare all, endure all, for them she loved. You could
see that in her face before you had been with her long enough to see it in
her life.

Her hair wus a soft, pretty brown, about the color of her eyes. And she
wus a little body, slender, and sort o' plump too; and her arms and hands
and neck wus soft and white as snow almost.

Yes, we loved Cicely: and no one could blame us, or wonder at us for
callin' her after the posy Sweet Cicely; for she wus prettier than any
posy that ever blew, enough sight.

Wall, she had always said she couldn't live if her mother died.