“You would. Stars are said to dwell apart, anyhow, sufficient unto themselves—ensphered in their own light. Do you really like Aunt Nancy?”
“Yes, indeed. She is very kind to me. She doesn’t make me wear sunbonnets and she lets me go barefooted in the forenoons. But I have to wear my buttoned boots in the afternoons, and I hate buttoned boots.”
“Naturally. You should be shod with sandals of moonshine and wear a scarf of sea-mist with a few fireflies caught in it over your hair. Star, you don’t look like your father, but you suggest him in several ways. Do you look like your mother? I never saw her.”
All at once Emily smiled demurely. A real sense of humour was born in her at that moment. Never again was she to feel quite so unmixedly tragic over anything.
“No,” she said, “it’s only my eyelashes and smile that are like Mother’s. But I’ve got Father’s forehead, and Grandma Starr’s hair and eyes, and Great-Uncle George’s nose, and Aunt Nancy’s hands, and Cousin Susan’s elbows, and Great-great-Grandmother Murray’s ankles, and Grandfather Murray’s eyebrows.”
Dean Priest laughed.
“A rag-bag—as we all are,” he said. “But your soul is your own, and fire-new, I’ll swear to that.”
“Oh, I’m so glad I like you,” said Emily impulsively. “It would be hateful to think any one I didn’t like had saved my life. I don’t mind your saving it a bit.”
“That’s good. Because you see your life belongs to me henceforth. Since I saved it it’s mine. Never forget that.”