With good judgment, Annette thought that the very best site had been selected for our house. The hill beyond the hollow at the back of the house protected us on three sides, but was not near enough to deprive us of fresh air, or to keep out the gentle breezes that would come up from the valley after sunset and carry away the miasmatic vapors, thus affording us healthful and refreshing sleep during the night. A barn, which the meadow farmer had so placed that it destroyed part of the view down the valley, was a great eyesore to Annette.
She asked Richard why the air with us was so cool and invigorating, and was very grateful when he explained the theory of the dew-fall to her.
She was full of charming ingenuousness, for she once said. "I do not doubt that you enjoy the singing of the birds, but I honestly confess that I do not. It is pleasant to know that the little animal up in the trees is so joyful; but, nevertheless, there is no beauty in tones without connection or expression. I find that there are no more tones in the scale of the finch than in that of the barn-yard rooster; and why do we prefer the notes of the finch?"
Richard often felt annoyed that Annette was constantly keeping every one about her on pins and needles, and seemed to desire his special approval of all that she did. He maintained that she was entirely deficient in mental balance.
The temperaments of Annette and Bertha were in marked contrast to each other.
When they were seated opposite each other and engaged in conversation, Bertha would bend forward, while Annette would lean back in her chair, as if immovable.
Bertha's mere presence exerted a grateful influence, while Annette felt that she must always be doing something, in order to inspire others with an interest in her.
Bertha, with all her affection for Martella, remained somewhat reserved towards her, while Annette was open and confiding, as with a sister. She was incapable of any other relations than those of perfect intimacy or absolute indifference.
Richard noticed all these peculiarities, and when he mentioned them to me, I was almost startled to find how carefully he had been observing Annette.
He was obliged, however, to agree with my wife when she said, "Annette's habit of requiring her friends to interest themselves in whatever engages her attention, is both innocent and childlike. A child will always think that its whip or its ball is of as much importance to others as to itself. Bear in mind, moreover, that Annette takes a lively interest in all that others do, and naturally enough supposes that they resemble her in that respect."