Mrs. Penniman had never had a lover, but her brother, who was very
shrewd, understood her turn of mind. "When Catherine is about
seventeen," he said to himself, "Lavinia will try and persuade her
that some young man with a moustache is in love with her. It will be
quite untrue; no young man, with a moustache or without, will ever be
in love with Catherine. But Lavinia will take it up, and talk to her
about it; perhaps, even, if her taste for clandestine operations
doesn't prevail with her, she will talk to me about it. Catherine
won't see it, and won't believe it, fortunately for her peace of
mind; poor Catherine isn't romantic."

She was a healthy well-grown child, without a trace of her mother's
beauty. She was not ugly; she had simply a plain, dull, gentle
countenance. The most that had ever been said for her was that she
had a "nice" face, and, though she was an heiress, no one had ever
thought of regarding her as a belle. Her father's opinion of her
moral purity was abundantly justified; she was excellently,
imperturbably good; affectionate, docile, obedient, and much addicted
to speaking the truth. In her younger years she was a good deal of a
romp, and, though it is an awkward confession to make about one's
heroine, I must add that she was something of a glutton. She never,
that I know of, stole raisins out of the pantry; but she devoted her
pocket-money to the purchase of cream-cakes. As regards this,
however, a critical attitude would be inconsistent with a candid
reference to the early annals of any biographer. Catherine was
decidedly not clever; she was not quick with her book, nor, indeed,
with anything else. She was not abnormally deficient, and she
mustered learning enough to acquit herself respectably in
conversation with her contemporaries, among whom it must be avowed,
however, that she occupied a secondary place. It is well known that