of hair that is a perfect wonder. Her back is beautifully straight and
she is capable of a smile I wish I could imitate.

She has the softest, cultured, sweet, English accent, which came with a
little quiver of her voice when she told of a little one who died here,
before there was any doctor. The three that are left are to her as
Cornelia's jewels.

I would just give anything to bring her to New York, give her the run of
the best _couturières_ and show her to some of our diamonds-at-breakfast
dowagers. As Harry would say, she would make them look like thirty cents.
They would perish with jealousy. She holds the savor and fragrance of
centuries of refinement.

Yesterday I went to their little church. It was built by Mr. Barnett and
the inhabitants, who cheerfully gave their labor. Every board of it
represents untold begging and saving. It was a nice, simple, little
service, in which the people were much interested and sang hymns with
fervor and plenty of false notes. My voice is hardly worth the money that
has been squandered upon it, but such as it is I began to sing also. To
my intense dismay I was soon singing alone, for the rest of the
congregation respectfully stopped. Mr. Barnett looked at me most
benevolently over his spectacles, but this was hardly enough to subdue my
sudden stage fright.

On the day before the nice little man called on us, soon after dinner,
which here is a midday function. Before this particular feast I had
apologized to Daddy for leaving him alone and going sailing for a few
hours.