She was a gaunt and big-eyed child, with a certain promise of
magnificence that, as Reyburn said, might be fulfilled in a year or
two in a sumptuous sort of beauty. But now she was a morbid and
retiring creature, fourteen or fifteen years old, looking out askance
and half suspiciously on the world from under the shadow of her
immense eyelashes, and singing from room to room with a strange voice
that a year or two would ripen into tones fit for a siren. There was
just the difference in age between her and Lilian that, while it
allowed them companionship, gave Lilian, together with the fact of her
engagement to John, a glorious dignity in Helen's eyes that she would
not have her abate a jot. Her gowns, her shawls, her simple laces and
few jewels seemed the appanage of a superior state of existence; they
brought close to her the possibilities of that charmed time when she
too would be a woman grown. She could not tire of gazing at the blush
flitting over Lilian's face as she spoke, at the way her steady eyelid
slanted toward her cheek as she read: the sound of her voice had an
intimate music that acted like a charm; and when this wonderful being
entertained her in her well hours and cosseted her in her ill ones,
listened to her, waited on her and caressed her, Helen rewarded her by
worshiping her.
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