"I am not in the least tired," said she, "and it did not hurt me to walk in the sun, and I like to sit here under the trees." Rose was charming that morning.

Her thick, fair hair was rolled back from her temples, which had at once something noble and childlike about them.

Her face was as clear as a cameo.

She was dressed in mourning for her aunt, but her black robe was thin and the fine curves of her shoulders and arms were revealed, and the black lace of her wide hat threw her fairness into relief like a setting of onyx.
"You had better go into the house," said Sylvia, her eyes stern, her mouth smiling.

A maternal instinct which dominated her had awakened suddenly in the older woman's heart.