"That is true, mother," said Mattie. "Doris is a great scholar. I cannot go away from home; I don't want to; I love to stay and help you; but let Doris go."
"I will ask your father," said Patty, hesitatingly.
"And he'll say to let the child have her own way," said Doris, with a laugh.
"Well, I must consult your father."
"Consult my father!" said Doris, with wonderful scorn.
She had a singular contempt for all about her, though no hint that she was other than the child of the Braces had been given her.
She had her way; she went to a fashionable boarding-school. For her clothing and tuition honest Mark paid the entire hundred pounds each year. She elected to visit schoolmates at vacation, and for four years Brackenside Farm knew no more of the golden-haired mystery.
At sixteen she came home again, beautiful as a fairy, ripe for mischief, mad for display—a tireless reader of French novels.
She looked about that home of rustic goodness, and covert scorn dwelt in the violet eyes and sat lightly on the chiseled lips; her parents were "so plain," her sister Mattie "a country simpleton."
They on their part rose up to do her homage; they bowed down and worshiped at beauty's shrine. And was she not most beautiful?