Do you want a photograph of us? I was past seventeen, not very tall, with a round sort of figure, and dimples everywhere in my face, where one could have been put by accident or design. My skin was fair, my hair—that was my sore point. I may as well tell the truth; it was red, a sort of deep mahogany red, and curled. My features were just passable. So, you see, I was not likely to set up for a beauty. Fan was sixteen, taller than I, slender, blonde, with saucy blue eyes and golden hair, and given to rather coquettish ways. Nelly was fourteen, almost as tall as I, with papa’s gray eyes,—only hers had a violet tint,—and mamma’s dark hair. Daisy was next, eleven, and on the blonde order. Lily, whose name was Elizabeth, and Tim, aged seven. Her real cognomen was Gertrude; but we began to call her Tiny Tim, and the name, somehow stuck to her. What a host of girls, to be sure!
“Papa,” I said that evening, going to the study for a good night kiss, where he was writing in the quiet,—“papa, are you sorry to have so many girls?”
I had been exercised on the subject all day, and I wanted to dispose of it before I slept.
“Why, my dear! no;” with a sweet gravity.
“But, papa,”—and I stumbled a little,—“it isn’t likely that—that—we shall all—get married—”
I could not proceed any farther, and hid my face on his shoulder.
“Married! What ever put such an absurd idea into your head, Rosalind? A parcel of children—married!”
I knew papa was displeased, or he would never have called me Rosalind.
“O, dear papa, don’t be angry!” I cried. “I was not thinking of being married, I’m sure. I don’t believe any one will ever like me very much, because my hair is red, and I may be fat as Mrs. Downs. And if I should be an old maid,—and I know I shall,—I want you to love me a little; and if I’m queer and fussy, and all that, you must be patient with me. I will try to do my best always.”
“My dear darling! what a foolish little thing you are! Some of the old women have been talking to you, I know. I shall certainly have to turn the barrel upside down, and find the sermon on bridling the tongue. You are all little girls, and I will not have the bloom rudely rubbed off of my peaches. There don’t cry about it;” and he kissed my wet face so tenderly that I did cry more than ever.