MARTY
have got on without her; they would have had to come, too—brothers, sisters, young husbands, grandchildren, and all.
Never but once did she give way. It was one June evening, when I was reading to her some favorite short poems out of Browning's Men and Women on a small lawn surrounded with roses, and of which she was fond.
The rest of the family were on the river, except her father and mother, who were dressing to go and dine with some neighbors; for a wonder, as they seldom dined away from home.
The carriage drove up to the door to fetch them, and they came out on the lawn to wish us good‑night.
Never had I been more struck with the splendor of Barty and his wife, now verging towards middle age, as they bent over to kiss their daughter, and he cut capers and cracked little jokes to make her laugh.
Leah's hair was slightly gray and her magnificent figure somewhat matronly, but there were no other signs of autumn; her beautiful white skin was still as delicate as a baby's, her jet‑black eyes as bright and full, her teeth just as they were thirty years back.
Tall as she was, her husband towered over her, the finest and handsomest man of his age I have ever seen. And Marty gazed after them with her heart in her eyes as they drove off.
"How splendid they are, Uncle Bob!"
Then she looked down at her own shrunken figure and limbs—her long, wasted legs and her thin, slight feet that were yet so beautifully shaped.