His long fair hair was combed--in royal fashion--down his back, a style at that time most unusual; his tightly-fitting jacket and breeches were black, bordered with deep crape; not even a white collar relieved his sombre attire, from which his fair face shone out doubly fair by contrast.
"Polly! Polly!" I cried, running to find my companion and guide, "who is that beautiful boy in black ?" "That's little Sir Lionel Damer," said Polly.

"Good-morning, Leo!" and she nodded as he passed.
The boy just touched his hat, bent his head with a melancholy and yet half-comical dignity, and walked on.
"Who's he in mourning for ?" I asked.
"His father and mother," said Polly.

"They were drowned together, and now he is Sir Lionel." I looked after him with sudden and intense sympathy.

His mother and his father too! This indeed was sorrow deeper than mine.

Surely his mother, like mine, must have been fair and beautiful, so much beauty and fairness had descended to him.
"Has he any sisters, Polly ?" I asked.
Polly shook her head.