The day before it would have been true, but that day it was a lie. I did
care; the brave words blistered my throat, sudden tears burned my
eyeballs, and to hide them I turned my back upon my tormentor.

It was not that I was jealous. I cared no more for Billy than for a dozen
other playmates. It was just the fact that hurt. I was homely! Not that
the idea was new to me, either. Dear me, no! Why, from my earliest years I
had been accustomed to think of myself as plain, and had not cared. My
earliest recollection, almost, is of two women who one day talked about me
in my presence, not thinking that I would understand.

"Ain't she humbly?" said one.

"Dretful! It's a pity. Looks means so much more to a gal."

"But she's smart."

By these words--you can see that I was young--I was exalted, not cast
down. And for five years, remembering them, I had been proud of being
"smart." But now, in the moment of revelation, the law of sex was laid
upon me, and the thought failed to bring its accustomed comfort. Smart?
Perhaps. But--homely!

With feet as light as my heart was heavy because of Billy's taunt, I flew
home and ran up to my room. I had there a tiny mirror, about two-thirds of
which had fallen from its frame. I may before that day have taken in it
brief, uncritical glimpses at my face, but they had not led to self-
analysis. Now, with beating heart and solemn earnestness, I balanced a
chair against the door--there was no lock--and looked long and unlovingly