“I don't remember much of it.”
“I never heard her voice,” said Sophie. “She was talking, the other time I saw her, but the machinery drowned it out. That was in the mill—she came there with some other people and walked about, looking at everything. We were all so excited. You know, her father owns the mill.”
“No, I didn't know it,” replied Samuel.
“He owns all sorts of things in Lockmanville. They're very, very rich. And she's his only daughter, and so beautiful—everybody worships her. I've got two pictures of her that were in the newspapers once. Come—you must see them.”
And so the two rushed upstairs; and over the bed were two faded newspaper clippings, one showing Miss Gladys in an evening gown, and the other in dimity en princesse, with a bunch of roses in her arms.
“Did you ever see anything so lovely?” asked the girl. “I made her my fairy godmother. And she used to say such lovely things to me. She must be very kind, you know—no one could be so beautiful who wasn't very, very good and kind.”
“No,” said Samuel. “She must be, I'm sure.”
And then a sudden idea came to him. “Sophie!” he exclaimed—“she said I was good looking! I wonder if I am.”
And Sophie shot a quick glance at him. “Why, of course you are!” she cried. “You stupid boy!”
Samuel went to the cracked mirror which hung upon the wall and looked at himself with new and wandering interest.