"What do you think o' Captain Macpherson, Maria?"
"I do not know, grandmother."
"He is a very handsome lad. It did my heart good to see his bright face."
"His face is covered with freckles."
"Freckles! Why not? He has been brought up in the wind and the sunshine, and not in a boarding-school, or a lady's parlor."
"Freckles are not handsome, however, grandmother."
Madame would not dally with half-admissions, and she retorted sharply:
"Freckles are the handsomest thing about a man; they are only the human sunshine tint; the vera same sunshine that colored the roses and ripened the wheat gave the lad the golden-brown freckles o' rich young life. Freckles! I consider them an improvement to any one. If you had a few yoursel' you would be the handsomer for them."
"Grandmother!"
"Yes, and your friend likewise. She has scarce a mite o' color o' any kind; a little o' the human sunshine tint—the red and gold on her cheeks—and she might be better looking."