I must now hope my readers sufficiently interested in my
narrative to care that I should tell them something of what she
was like. Plainly as I see her, I can not do more for them than
that. I can not give a portrait of her; I can but cast her shadow
on my page. It was a dainty half-length, neither tall nor short,
in a plain, well-fitting dress of black silk, with linen collar
and cuffs, that rose above the counter, standing, in spite of
displeasure, calm and motionless. Her hair was dark, and dressed
in the simplest manner, without even a reminder of the hideous
occipital structure then in favor--especially with shop women,
who in general choose for imitation and exorbitant development
whatever is ugliest and least lady-like in the fashion of the
hour. It had a natural wave in it, which broke the too straight
lines it would otherwise have made across a forehead of sweet and
composing proportions. Her features were regular--her nose
straight--perhaps a little thin; the curve of her upper lip
carefully drawn, as if with design to express a certain firmness
of modesty; and her chin well shaped, perhaps a little too
sharply defined for her years, and rather large. Everything about
her suggested the repose of order satisfied, of unconstrained
obedience to the laws of harmonious relation. The only fault
honest criticism could have suggested, merely suggested, was the
presence of just a possible _nuance_ of primness. Her boots,
at this moment unseen of any, fitted her feet, as her feet fitted
her body. Her hands were especially good. There are not many
ladies, interested in their own graces, who would not have envied
her such seals to her natural patent of ladyhood. Her speech and
manners corresponded with her person and dress; they were direct
and simple, in tone and inflection, those of one at peace with
herself. Neatness was more notable in her than grace, but grace