He sent his parcel off, and speedily ceased to think of it.  And Lottie herself might have done the same, not caring much for his books, but for four little words—­“those eyes of yours.”  Had Percival written “your eyes,” it would have meant nothing, but “those eyes of yours” implied notice—­nay, admiration.  Again and again she looked at the thick paper, with the crest at the top and the vigorous lines of writing below; and again and again the four words, “those eyes of yours,” seemed to spring into ever-clearer prominence.  She hid the letter away with a sudden comprehension of the roughness of her pencil scrawl which it answered, and began to take pride in her looks when they least deserved it.  Only a day or two before she had envied Robin the possession of sight a little keener than her own, but now she smiled to think that Percival Thorne would never have regretted injury to “those eyes of yours” had she owned Robin’s light-gray orbs.

Her transformation had begun.  The knife was still a treasure, but she was ashamed of her delight in it.  She breathed on the shining blades and rubbed them to brightness again, but she did it stealthily, with a glance over her shoulder first.  She went rambling with Robin and Jack, but not when she knew that Percival Thorne was in the neighborhood.  She was very sure of his absence on the November day to which her mother had alluded, when she had insisted on playing trap-and-ball in the rectory meadows.  Mrs. Blake did not realize it, but it was almost the last day of Lottie’s old life.  At Christmas-time they were asked to stay for a few days at a friend’s house.  There was to be a dance, and the hostess, being Lottie’s godmother, pointedly included her in the invitation; so Mrs. Blake and Addie did what they could to improve their black sheep’s appearance.

Lottie, dressed for the eventful evening, was left alone for a moment before the three went down.  She felt shy, dispirited and sullen.  Her ball-dress encumbered and constrained her.  “I hate it all,” she said to herself, beating impatiently with her foot upon the ground.  Something moving caught her eye:  it was her reflection in a mirror.  She paused and gazed in wonder.  Was this slender girl, arrayed in a cloud of semi-transparent white, really herself—­the Lottie who only a few days before had raced Robin Wingfield home across the fields, had been the first over the gap and through the ditch into the rectory meadow, and had rushed away with the November rain-drops driving in her face?  She gazed on:  the transformation had its charms, after all.  But the shadow came back:  “It’s no use.  Addie’s prettier than I ever shall be:  I must be second all my life.  Second!  If I can’t be A 1, I’d as soon be Z 1000!  I won’t go about to be a foil to her.  I’d ten times rather race with Robin; and I will too!  They sha’n’t coop me up and make a young lady of me!”

She caught the flash of her indignant glance in the glass and paused.