My young lady’s eighteenth birthday was the birthday now coming, on the twenty-first of June.  If you happen to like dark women (who, I am informed, have gone out of fashion latterly in the gay world), and if you have no particular prejudice in favour of size, I answer for Miss Rachel as one of the prettiest girls your eyes ever looked on.  She was small and slim, but all in fine proportion from top to toe.  To see her sit down, to see her get up, and specially to see her walk, was enough to satisfy any man in his senses that the graces of her figure (if you will pardon me the expression) were in her flesh and not in her clothes.  Her hair was the blackest I ever saw.  Her eyes matched her hair.  Her nose was not quite large enough, I admit.  Her mouth and chin were (to quote Mr. Franklin) morsels for the gods; and her complexion (on the same undeniable authority) was as warm as the sun itself, with this great advantage over the sun, that it was always in nice order to look at.  Add to the foregoing that she carried her head as upright as a dart, in a dashing, spirited, thoroughbred way—­that she had a clear voice, with a ring of the right metal in it, and a smile that began very prettily in her eyes before it got to her lips—­and there behold the portrait of her, to the best of my painting, as large as life!

And what about her disposition next?  Had this charming creature no faults?  She had just as many faults as you have, ma’am—­neither more nor less.

To put it seriously, my dear pretty Miss Rachel, possessing a host of graces and attractions, had one defect, which strict impartiality compels me to acknowledge.  She was unlike most other girls of her age, in this—­that she had ideas of her own, and was stiff-necked enough to set the fashions themselves at defiance, if the fashions didn’t suit her views.  In trifles, this independence of hers was all well enough; but in matters of importance, it carried her (as my lady thought, and as I thought) too far.  She judged for herself, as few women of twice her age judge in general; never asked your advice; never told you beforehand what she was going to do; never came with secrets and confidences to anybody, from her mother downwards.  In little things and great, with people she loved, and people she hated (and she did both with equal heartiness), Miss Rachel always went on a way of her own, sufficient for herself in the joys and sorrows of her life.  Over and over again I have heard my lady say, “Rachel’s best friend and Rachel’s worst enemy are, one and the other—­Rachel herself.”

Add one thing more to this, and I have done.