He has known about it for years, I suppose, just as I have, but I believe
men are queer creatures, and he may take a dislike to me. I am not a type
that would please every one. My hair is too red--brilliant, dark, fiery
red, like a chestnut when it tumbles out of its shell, only burnished like
metal. If I had the usual white eyelashes I should be downright ugly, but,
thank goodness! by some freak of nature mine are black and thick, and
stick out when you look at me sideways, and I often think when I catch
sight of myself in the glass that I am really very pretty--all put
together--but, as I said before, not a type to please every one.

A combination I am that Mrs. Carruthers assured me would cause anxieties.
"With that mixture, Evangeline," she often said, "you would do well to
settle yourself in life as soon as possible. Good girls don't have your
coloring." So you see, as I am branded as bad from the beginning, it does
not much matter what I do. My eyes are as green as pale emeralds, and
long, and not going down at the corners with the Madonna expression of
Cicely Parker, the vicar's daughter. I do not know yet what is being good,
or being bad; perhaps I shall find out when I am an adventuress, or
married to Mr. Carruthers.

All I know is that I want to _live_, and feel the blood rushing through my
veins. I want to do as I please, and not have to be polite when I am
burning with rage. I want to be late in the morning if I happen to fancy
sleeping, and I want to sit up at night if I don't want to go to bed! So,
as you can do what you like when you are married, I really hope Mr.
Carruthers will take a fancy to me, and then all will be well! I shall
stay up-stairs until I hear the carriage wheels, and leave Mr. Barton--the
lawyer--to receive him. Then I shall saunter down nonchalantly while they
are in the hall. It will be an effective entrance. My trailing black
garments, and the great broad stairs--this is a splendid house--and if he