Never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still upright as a dart; the "November roses" in her cheeks were of their kind as sweet as the June ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much patience with, others.
While they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl friends, like to know who they were--these three, Ralph, Sylvia, and Molly, whom I want to tell you about, and whom I hope you will love?
When I was a little girl I liked to know exactly about the children in my books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections.

I liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their relations _most_ exactly, and more than once I was laughed at for writing out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little fancy friends' family connections.

We need not go quite so far as _that_, but I will explain to you about these new little friends of yours enough for you to be able to find out the rest for yourselves.
They had never seen their grandmother before, never, that is to say, in the girls' case, and in Ralph's "not to remember her." Ralph was fourteen now, Sylvia thirteen, and Molly about a year and a half younger.

More than seven years ago their mother had died, and since then they had been living with their father, whose profession obliged him often to change his home, in various different places.

It had been impossible for their grandmother, much as she wished it, to have had them hitherto with her, for, for several years out of the seven, her hands, and those of aunty, too, her only other daughter besides their mother, had been more than filled with other cares.