The splendid hair was raised high in small silky ripples above the white brow.

The little love-locks on the temples had been delicately arranged so as to complete the fine oval of the face, and at the back the black masses drawn lightly upwards from the neck, and held in place there by a pearl comb of Mrs.Burgoyne's, had been piled and twisted into a crown that would have made Artemis herself more queenly.
'Am I really to keep it like this ?' cried Lucy, looking at herself in the glass.
'But of course you are!' and Mrs.Burgoyne instinctively held the girl's arms, lest any violence should be offered to her handiwork--'And you must put on your _old_ white frock--_not_ the check--the nice soft one that's been washed, with the pink sash--Goodness, how the time goes! Marie, run and tell Miss Manisty not to wait for me--I'll follow her to the village.' The maid went.

Lucy looked down upon her tyrant-- You are very kind to me'-- she said with a lip that trembled slightly.

Her blue eyes under the black brows showed a feeling that she did not know how to express.

The subdued responsiveness, indeed, of Lucy's face was like that of Wordsworth's Highland girl struggling with English.