Durward was almost guilty of the rudeness of staring at the strangeness of ’Lena’s appearance, for as nearly as she could, she looked like a fright.  Bending over hot stoves and boiling gravies is not very beneficial to one’s complexion, and ’Lena’s cheeks, neck, forehead, and nose were of a purplish red—­her hair was tucked back in a manner exceedingly unbecoming, while the broad check-apron, which came nearly to her feet, tended in nowise to improve her appearance.  She felt it keenly, and after returning Durward’s salutation, she broke away before Anna or John, Jr., who were both surprised at her looks, had time to ask a question.

Running up to her room, her first impulse was to cry, but knowing that would disfigure her still more, she bathed her burning face and neck, brushed out her curls, threw on a simple muslin dress, and started for the parlor, of which Durward and Carrie were at that moment the only occupants.  As she was passing the outer door, she observed upon one of the piazza pillars a half-blown rose, and for a moment stopped to admire it.  Durward, who sat in a corner, did not see her, but Carrie did, and a malicious feeling prompted her to draw out her companion, who she felt sure was disappointed in ’Lena’s face.  They were speaking of a lady whom they saw at Frankfort, and whom Carrie pronounced “perfectly beautiful,” while Durward would hardly admit that she was even good-looking.

“I am surprised at your taste,” said Carrie, adding, as she noticed the proximity of her cousin, “I think she resembles ’Lena, and of course you’ll acknowledge she is beautiful.”

“She was beautiful five years ago, but she’s greatly changed since then,” answered Durward, never suspecting the exquisite satisfaction his words afforded Carrie, who replied, “You had better keep that opinion to yourself, and not express it before Captain Atherton or brother John.”

“Who takes my name in vain?” asked John Jr., himself appearing at a side door.

“Oh, John,” said Carrie, “we were just disputing about ’Lena.  Durward does not think her handsome.”

“Durward be hanged!” answered John, making a feint of drawing from his pocket a pistol which was not there.  “What fault has he to find with ’Lena?”

“A little too rosy, that’s all,” said Durward, laughingly, while John continued, “She did look confounded red and dowdyish, for her.  I don’t understand it myself.”

Here the hem of the muslin dress on which Carrie’s eye had all the while been resting, disappeared, and as there was no longer an incentive for ill-natured remarks, the amiable young lady adroitly changed the conversation.

John Jr. also caught a glimpse of the retreating figure, and started in pursuit, in the course of his search passing the kitchen, where he was instantly hailed by Aunt Milly, who, while bemoaning her own aches and pains, did not fail to tell him how “Miss ’Lena, like aborned angel dropped right out of ’tarnity, had been in thar, burning her skin to a fiery red, a-tryin’ to get up a tip-top dinner.”