There are women who, even amidst their strongest efforts at giving assistance to others, always look as though they were asking aid themselves, and such a one was Dorothy Stanbury.

Her complexion was pale, but there was always present in it a tint of pink running here and there, changing with every word she spoke, changing indeed with every pulse of her heart.

Nothing ever was softer than her cheek; but her hands were thin and hard, and almost fibrous with the working of the thread upon them.

She was rather tall than otherwise, but that extreme look of feminine dependence which always accompanied her, took away something even from the appearance of her height.
"These are all real, at any rate," said her aunt, taking hold of the curls, "and won't be hurt by a little cold water." Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to her bed-room.

Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner together Dorothy had hardly spoken.