"I wish I could remember her," said the Story Girl, with a little
sigh. "I haven't even a picture of her. Why didn't you paint
one, father?"

"She would never let me. She had some queer, funny, half-playful,
half-earnest superstition about it. But I always meant to when
she would become willing to let me. And then--she died. Her twin
brother Felix died the same day. There was something strange
about that, too. I was holding her in my arms and she was looking
up at me; suddenly she looked past me and gave a little start.
'Felix!' she said. For a moment she trembled and then she smiled
and looked up at me again a little beseechingly. 'Felix has come
for me, dear,' she said. 'We were always together before you
came--you must not mind--you must be glad I do not have to go
alone.' Well, who knows? But she left me, Sara--she left me."

There was that in Uncle Blair's voice that kept us silent for a
time. Then the Story Girl said, still very softly:

"What did mother look like, father? I don't look the least little
bit like her, do I?"

"No, I wish you did, you brown thing. Your mother's face was as
white as a wood-lily, with only a faint dream of rose in her
cheeks. She had the eyes of one who always had a song in her
heart--blue as a mist, those eyes were. She had dark lashes, and
a little red mouth that quivered when she was very sad or very
happy like a crimson rose too rudely shaken by the wind. She was
as slim and lithe as a young, white-stemmed birch tree. How I
loved her! How happy we were! But he who accepts human love must