full of corners, jagged, and strange, and uncomfortable. You never could
tell what she might say next; and I like not that kind of women. Now God
forgive me for talking so of my own father's daughter, and so much the
more by reason that my father could not help it. The right way is
to face the matter, and then be sorry for every one. My mother fell
grievously on a slide, which John Fry had made nigh the apple-room door,
and hidden with straw from the stable, to cover his own great idleness.
My father laid John's nose on the ice, and kept him warm in spite of it;
but it was too late for Eliza. She was born next day with more mind than
body--the worst thing that can befall a man.

But Annie, my other sister, was now a fine fair girl, beautiful to
behold. I could look at her by the fireside, for an hour together, when
I was not too sleepy, and think of my dear father. And she would do the
same thing by me, only wait the between of the blazes. Her hair was done
up in a knot behind, but some would fall over her shoulders; and the
dancing of the light was sweet to see through a man's eyelashes. There
never was a face that showed the light or the shadow of feeling, as if
the heart were sun to it, more than our dear Annie's did. To look at her
carefully, you might think that she was not dwelling on anything; and
then she would know you were looking at her, and those eyes would tell
all about it. God knows that I try to be simple enough, to keep to His
meaning in me, and not make the worst of His children. Yet often have I
been put to shame, and ready to bite my tongue off, after speaking amiss
of anybody, and letting out my littleness, when suddenly mine eyes have
met the pure soft gaze of Annie.

As for the Doones, they were thriving still, and no one to come against
them; except indeed by word of mouth, to which they lent no heed
whatever. Complaints were made from time to time, both in high and low