when Susie came in. Ben Crane was sitting by me. He nudged me with his elbow and whispered:
"How's that 'ere for poorty?"
I made him no answer, but remained staring at the girl till long after she had taken her seat. Nature plays strange tricks. Susie, the daughter of farmer Adair, was as beautiful in the face as any angel could be, and her form was as perfect as that of the Cnidian Venus. Her motion when she walked was music, and as she sat in statuesque repose, the undulations of her queenly form were those of perfect ease, grace and strength. Her hands were small and taper, a little browned from exposure, as was also her face. Her hair was the real classic gold, and her grey eyes were riant with health and content. When her red lips parted to sing, they discovered small even teeth, as white as ivory. I can give you no idea of her. Physically she was perfection's self in the mould of a Venus of the grandest type. Her head, too, was an intellectual one (though feminine), in the best sense of the word. The first thought that flashed across my mind was embodied in the words—A Venus—and I still think of her as the best model I ever saw.
"How's that for poorty?" repeated Crane.
"Who is she!" I replied interrogatively.
"She's my jewlarker," said he.
"Your what?"
"My sweetheart."
"What is her name?"