Twelve years before I went to Caddagat, when Helen Bossier had been eighteen and one of the most beautiful and lovable girls in Australia, there had come to Caddagat on a visit a dashing colonel of the name of Bell, in the enjoyment of a most extended furlough for the benefit of his health.  He married aunt Helen and took her to some part of America where his regiment was stationed.  I have heard them say she worshipped Colonel Bell, but in less than a twelvemonth he tired of his lovely bride, and becoming enamoured of another woman, he tried to obtain a divorce.  On account of his wife’s spotless character he was unable to do this; he therefore deserted her and openly lived with the other woman as his mistress.  This forced aunt Helen to return to Caddagat, and her mother had induced her to sue for a judicial separation, which was easily obtained.

When a woman is separated from her husband it is the religion of the world at large to cast the whole blame on the wife.  By reason of her youth and purity Mrs Bell had not as much to suffer in this way as some others.  But, comparatively speaking, her life was wrecked.  She had been humiliated and outraged in the cruellest way by the man whom she loved and trusted.  He had turned her adrift, neither a wife, widow, nor maid, and here she was, one of the most estimably lovable and noble women I have ever met.

“Come, Sybylla,” she said, starting up brightly, “I have a plan—­will you agree to it?  Come and take one good long look at yourself in the glass, then I will turn it to the wall, and you must promise me that for three or four weeks you will not look in a mirror.  I will put as many as I can out of your way, and you must avoid the remainder.  During this time I will take you in hand, and you must follow my directions implicitly.  Will you agree?  You will be surprised what a nice-looking little girl I will make of you.”

Of course I agreed.  I took a long and critical survey of myself in the glass.  There was reflected a pair of hands, red and coarsened with rough work, a round face, shiny and swollen with crying, and a small round figure enshrouded in masses of hair falling in thick waves to within an inch or two of the knees.  A very ugly spectacle, I thought.  Aunt Helen turned the face of the large mirror flat against the wall, while I remarked despondently, “you can make me only middling ugly, you must be a magician.”

“Come now, part of my recipe is that you must not think of yourself at all.  I’ll take you in hand in the morning.  I hope you will like your room; I have arranged it on purpose to suit you.  And now good night, and happy dreams.”