Years passed; the lovely children, who tripped hand in hand down the street of Abbeyweld, grew into ripe girlhood, and walked arm in arm—­the pride and admiration of every villager.  The curate became at last rector, and Mrs. Myles’s absurdities increased with her years.  The perfect beauty of the cousins, both of face and form, rendered them celebrated far and near.  Each had a separate character as from the first; and yet—­but that Rose Dillon was a little shorter than her cousin Helen Marsh, and that the expression of her eyes was so different that it was almost impossible to believe they were the same shape and colour, the cousins might have been mistaken for each other—­I say might, because it is rather remarkable that they never were.  Helen’s fine dark eyes had a lofty and forbidding aspect, while Rose had not the power, if indeed she ever entertained the will, of looking either the one or the other.  I thought Rose the most graceful of the two in her carriage, but there could be no doubt as to Helen’s being the most dignified; both girls were almost rustic in their manners, but rusticity and vulgarity are very distinct in their feelings and attributes.  They could not do or say aught that was vulgar or at variance with the kindnesses of life—­those tender nothings which make up so large a something in the account of every day’s existence.  Similar, withal, as the cousins were in appearance, they grew up as dissimilar in feelings and opinions as it is possible to conceive, and yet loving each other dearly.  Still Helen never for a moment fancied that any one in the village of Abbeyweld could compete with her in any way.  She had never questioned herself as to this being the case, but the idea had been nourished since her earliest infancy—­had never been disputed, except perhaps when latterly a town belle, or even a more conceited specimen, a country belle, visited in the neighbourhood; but popular voice (and there is a popular voice, be it loud or gentle, everywhere) soon discovered that blonde, and feathers, and flowers, had a good deal to do with this disturbing of popular opinion; and after a few days, the good people invariably returned to their allegiance.  “Ah! ah!” old Mrs. Myles would observe on these occasions—­Ah! ah!”—­I told you they’d soon find the fair lady was shaded by her fine laces.  I daresay now she’s on the look-out for a good match, poor thing!  Not that Helen is handsome—­don’t look in the glass, Helen, child!  My grandmother always said that Old Nick stood behind every young lady’s shoulder when she looked in the glass, with a rouge-pot all ready to make her look handsomer in her own eyes than she really was; which shows how wicked it is to look much in a glass.  Only a little sometimes, Nell, darling—­we’ll forgive her for looking a little; but certainly when I looked at the new beauty in church the other day, and then looked, I know where, I thought—­but no matter, Helen, no matter—­I don’t want to make either of my girls vain.”