cheeks. I spent considerable time before the glass, and both Mammy and
Jane began to fear the effects of vanity. Often and often would the old
nurse say: "You needn't stand before the glass, Miss Amy--there is
nothing to look at," or when in a bad humor, "Don't make such faces,
child--you have no beauty to spare," and I can very well remember how
both would endeavor to persuade me that I was the most veritable little
fright that ever existed, and quite a bugbear to my relations.

"What a pity," Jane would commence, as she saw me surveying myself with
an air of infinite satisfaction, "what a pity it is that Miss Amy has
such a dark, ugly skin--almost like an Indian, isn't it, nurse?"

I had eyes to judge for myself, and knew that I was much fairer than
either Mammy or Jane; and somebody had remarked in my presence: "What a
lovely neck and shoulders!" therefore I generally remained perfectly
quiet while listening to these inuendoes.

"Yes," Mammy would reply, "a very great pity--but an amiable temper,
Miss Amy, is more than looks; you must try and cultivate that, to make
up for your want of beauty."

"And then," continued Jane, "only see how perfectly straight her hair
is! not a sign of curl, nor even a twist!--and black eyes have such a
wicked kind of a look; they always remind me of cannibals."

Jane's eyes were as blue and bright as glass beads, while Mammy's, I
thought, approached a green, but with my own I felt perfectly satisfied;
for a lady had remarked in my presence what beautiful eyes I
had--adding that "dark eyes were so much more expressive than blue; blue
ones were so very insipid looking." The observation about my hair,