She was the black sheep of her own family, and in continual disgrace for lesser crimes than he daily committed with impunity.

But her admiration of Peter was tame and pale beside her admiration of Lady Mary.

A mother who never scolded, who told no tales, who petted black sheep when they were bruised and torn or stained entirely through their own wickedness, who could always be depended on for kisses and bonbons and fairy-tales, seemed more angelic than human to poor little Sarah; whose own mother was wrapt up in her two irreproachable sons, and had small affection to spare for an ugly, tiresome little girl.
Sarah, however, had slowly but surely struggled out of the ugliness of her childhood; and John Crewys, regarding her critically in the lamplight, decided she would develop, one of these days, into a very handsome young woman; in spite of an ungainly stoop, a wide mouth that pouted rather too much, and a nose that inclined saucily upwards.
Her colouring was fresh, even brilliant--the bright rose, and creamy tint that sometimes accompanies vivid red hair--and of a vivid, uncompromising red were the locks that crowned Miss Sarah's little head, and shaded her blue-veined temples.
Miss Crewys had, in consequence, long ago pronounced her to be a positive fright; and Lady Belstone had declared that such hair would prove an insuperable obstacle to her chances of getting a husband.
"I know she's very young," said Mrs.Hewel, glancing apologetically at her offspring.

"But what can I do?
There's no going against Lady Tintern; and at seventeen she ought to be something more than a tomboy, after all." "_You_ were married at seventeen, weren't you ?" said Sarah to Lady Mary, in her deep, almost tragic voice--a voice that commanded attention, though it came oddly from her girlish chest.
"Sarah!" said Mrs.Hewel.
Lady Mary started and smiled.

"Me?
Yes, Sarah; I was married at seventeen." "Mamma says nobody can be married properly--before they're one and twenty.