at my reflected image.

I saw many freckles, a nose too small, ears too big, honest eyes, hair
which was an undecided brown; in short, an ordinary wind-blown little
prairie girl. Perhaps I was not so ill-looking, nor Janey so pretty, as
Billy affected to think, but no such comforting conclusion then came to
me. Sorrow fronted me in the glass.

The broken mirror gave no hint of my figure, but I know that I was lean
and angular, with long legs forever thrusting themselves below the hem of
my dress; the kind of girl for whose growth careful mothers provide skirts
with tucks that can be let out to keep pace with their increasing stature.

Yes, I was homely! I could not dispute the evidence of the bit of shivered
glass.

My heart was swelling with grief as I slowly went down stairs, where my
mother was getting supper for the hired men. I think it must have been
early spring, for prairie schools need not expect boy pupils in seeding
time; I know that the door was open and the weather warm.

"Ma," I said as I entered the dining room, "will I ever be pretty?"

"Sakes alive! What _will_ the child think of next?"

"But will I, Ma?"

"'Han'some is as han'some does,' you know, Nelly," my mother responded, as
she set on the table two big plates piled high with slices of bread. Then
she went into the buttery and brought out a loaf of temperance cake, a