to the devotee, little Asian made sundry belligerent demonstrations; but he confronted her with the two words she had learned here, Willoughby and the town’s name.  The dwarf became livid, seemed always after haunted by a dreadful fear of him, pursued him with a rancorous hate, but could not hinder his marriage.  The Willoughbys are a cruel race.  Her only revenge was to take away the amber beads, which had long before been blessed by the Pope for her young mistress, refusing herself to accompany my mother, and declaring that neither should her charms ever cross the water,—­that all their blessing would be changed to banning, and that bane would burn the bearer, should the salt-sea spray again dash round them.  But when, in process of Nature, the Asian died,—­having become classic through her longevity, taking length of days for length of stature,—­then the rosary belonged to mamma’s sister, who by-and-by sent it, with a parcel of other things, to papa for me.  So I should have had it at all events, you see;—­papa is such a tease I The other things were mamma’s wedding-veil, that point there, which once was her mother’s, and some pearls.

I was born upon the sea, in a calm, far out of sight of land, under sweltering suns; so, you know, I’m a cosmopolite, and have a right to all my fantasies.  Not that they are fantasies at all; on the contrary, they are parts of my nature, and I couldn’t be what I am without them, or have one and not have all.  Some girls go picking and scraping odds and ends of ideas together, and by the time they are thirty get quite a bundle of whims and crotchets on their backs; but they are all at sixes and sevens, uneven and knotty like fagots, and won’t lie compactly, don’t belong to them, and anybody might surprise them out of them.  But for me, you see, mine are harmonious, in my veins; I was born with them.  Not that I was always what I am now.  Oh, bless your heart! plums and nectarines, and luscious things that ripen and develop all their rare juices, were green once, and so was I. Awkward, tumble-about, near-sighted, till I was twenty, a real raw-head-and-bloody-bones to all society; then mamma, who was never well in our diving-bell atmosphere, was ordered to the West Indies, and papa said it was what I needed, and I went, too,—­and oh, how sea-sick!  Were you ever?  You forget all about who you are, and have a vague notion of being Universal Disease.  I have heard of a kind of myopy that is biliousness, and when I reached the islands my sight was as clear as my skin; all that tropical luxuriance snatched me to itself at once, recognized me for kith and kin; and mamma died, and I lived.  We had accidents between wind and water, enough to have made me considerate for others, Lu said; but I don’t see that I’m any less careful not to have my bones spilt in the flood than ever I was.  Slang?  No,—­poetry.  But if your nature had such a wild, free tendency as mine, and then were boxed up with proprieties and civilities from year’s end to year’s end, may-be you, too, would escape now and then in a bit of slang.