thought it was just sweet of him.  He also chatted with her in public places, as if she were a respectable character; and oh, how she longed to be respectable! but, on the other hand, he was the first to point out how superbly he was behaving, and his ways were masterful, so the independent girl would not be captain’s wife; if he said she was captain’s wife he had to apologize, and if he merely looked it he had to apologize just the same.

One night the Painted Lady died in the Den, and then it would have gone hard with the lonely girl had not Dr. McQueen made her his little housekeeper, not out of pity, he vowed (she was so anxious to be told that), but because he was an old bachelor sorely in need of someone to take care of him.  And how she took care of him!  But though she was so happy now, she knew that she must be very careful, for there was something in her blood that might waken and prevent her being a good woman.  She thought it would be sweet to be good.

She told all this to Tommy, and he was profoundly interested, and consulted a wise man, whose advice was that when she grew up she should be wary of any man whom she liked and mistrusted in one breath.  Meaning to do her a service, Tommy communicated this to her; and then, what do you think?  Grizel would have no more dealings with him!  By and by the gods, in a sportive mood, sent him to labour on a farm, whence, as we have seen, he found a way to London, and while he was growing into a man Grizel became a woman.  At the time of the doctor’s death she was nineteen, tall and graceful, and very dark and pale.  When the winds of the day flushed her cheek she was beautiful; but it was a beauty that hid the mystery of her face.  The sun made her merry, but she looked more noble when it had set; then her pallor shone with a soft, radiant light, as though the mystery and sadness and serenity of the moon were in it.  The full beauty of Grizel came out only at night, like the stars.

I had made up my mind that when the time came to describe Grizel’s mere outward appearance I should refuse her that word “beautiful” because of her tilted nose; but now that the time has come, I wonder at myself.  Probably when I am chapters ahead I shall return to this one and strike out the word “beautiful,” and then, as likely as not, I shall come back afterwards and put it in again.  Whether it will be there at the end, God knows.  Her eyes, at least, were beautiful.  They were unusually far apart, and let you look straight into them, and never quivered; they were such clear, gray, searching eyes, they seemed always to be asking for the truth.  And she had an adorable mouth.  In repose it was, perhaps, hard, because it shut so decisively; but often it screwed up provokingly at one side, as when she smiled, or was sorry, or for no particular reason; for she seemed unable to control this vagary, which was perhaps a little bit of babyhood that had forgotten to grow up with the rest of her.  At those moments the