Muslin | Page 7

of leaf-entangled rays towards a pet companion
standing at the end of a gravel-walk examining the flower she has just
picked, the sunlight glancing along her little white legs proudly and
charmingly advanced. The elder girls in their longer skirts were more
dignified, but when they caught sight of a favourite sister, they too ran
forward, and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing an
indiscretion.
It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and since early
morning all had been busy preparing for the arrival of the Bishop. His
throne had been set at one end of the school-hall, and at the other the
carpenters had erected a stage for the performance of King Cophetua, a
musical sketch written by Miss Alice Barton for the occasion.
Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. At home,
during the holidays, she often heard that the dressmaker could not fit
her; but though her shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and
almost awkward, there was a character about the figure that
commanded attention. Alice was now turned twenty; she was the eldest,
the best-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the school. It was not,
therefore, on account of any backwardness in her education that she
had been kept so long out of society, but because Mrs. Barton thought
that, as her two girls were so different in appearance, it would be well
for them to come out together. Against this decision Alice said nothing,
and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the convent from girl to
womanhood. To her the little children ran to be comforted; and to walk
with her in the garden was considered an honour and a pleasure that
even the Reverend Mother was glad to participate in.
Lady Cecilia Cullen sat next to Alice, and her high shoulders and long
face and pathetic eyes drew attention to her shoulders--they were a little
wry, the right seemingly higher than the left. Her eyes were on Alice,
and it was plain that she wished the other girls away, and that her
nature was delicate, sensitive, obscure, if not a little queer. At home her
elder sisters complained that an ordinary look or gesture often shocked
her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours sitting apart

refusing all consolation; and it was true that a spot on the tablecloth or
presence of one repellent to her was sufficient to extinguish a delight or
an appetite.
Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden bench. She was very
thin, but withal elegantly made. Her face was neat and delicate, and it
was set with light blue eyes; and when she was not changing her place
restlessly, or looking round as if she fancied someone was approaching,
when she was still (which was seldom), a rigidity of feature and an
almost complete want of bosom gave her the appearance of a
convalescent boy.
If May Gould, who stood at the back, her hand leaning affectionately
on Alice's shoulder, had been three inches taller, she would have been
classed a fine figure, but her features were too massive for her height.
Her hair was not of an inherited red. It was the shade of red that is only
seen in the children of dark-haired parents. In great coils it rolled over
the dimpled cream of her neck, and with the exception of Alice, May
was the cleverest girl in the school. For public inspection she made
large water-coloured drawings of Swiss scenery; for private view,
pen-and-ink sketches of officers sitting in conservatories with young
ladies. The former were admired by the nuns, the latter occasioned
some discussion among a select few.
Violet Scully and May Gould would appeal to different imaginations.
Olive, Alice's sister, was more beautiful than either, but there was
danger that her corn-coloured hair, wound round a small shapely head,
might fail to excite more than polite admiration. Her nose was finely
chiselled, but it was high and aquiline, and though her eyes were well
drawn and coloured, they lacked personal passion and conviction; but
no flower could show more delicate tints than her face--rose tints
fading into cream, cream rising into rose. Her ear was curved like a
shell, her mouth was faint and weak as a rose, and her moods alternated
between sudden discontent and sudden gaiety.
'I don't see, Alice, why you couldn't have made King Cophetua marry
the Princess. Whoever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid?

Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be
jilted before them all isn't very nice. I am sure mamma wouldn't like it.'
'But you are not jilted, my dear Olive. You don't like the King, and you
show your nobleness