chiffon--anyhow, something white and filmy and girlish--curled up
on a sofa and absorbed in a novel of Mrs. Henry Wood, borrowed, if
one could judge by the state of its greasy brown paper cover, from
the servants' hall. I confess that, though to her as to her
brother I was "Uncle Duncan," and loved her as a dear, sweet
English girl, I found her lacking in spirituality, in intellectual
grasp, in emotional distinction. I should have said that she was
sealed by God to be the chaste, healthy, placid mother of men. She
was forever laughing--just the spontaneous laughter of the
gladness of life.

On the last afternoon of her existence she came to see me,
bringing me a basket of giant strawberries from her own particular
bed. We had tea in the garden, and with her young appetite she
consumed half the fruit she had brought. At the time I did not
notice an unusual touch of depression. I remember her holding by
its stalk a great half-eaten strawberry and asking me whether
sometimes I didn't find life rather rotten. I said idly:

"You can't expect the world to be a peach without a speck on it.
Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. The wise person avoids the
specks."

"But suppose you've bitten a specky bit by accident?"

"Spit it out," said I.

She laughed. "You think you're like the wise Uncle in the Sunday
School books, don't you?"