Had there not been Katherine Blair, wife and
mother--Katherine Blair Randolph, who filled my love-world as the noonday
August sun fills the old-fashioned well with nestling warmth and restful
shade--after this interval, looking back at the past, I dare ask the
question--who knows but that I too might have drifted from the secure
anchorage of my slow Yankee blood and floated into the deep waters?
Beauty, the cynic's scoff, is in the eye of the beholder, or in an angle
of vision--mere product of lime-light, point of view, desire--but Beulah
Sands's was beauty beyond cavil, superior to all analysis, as definite as
the evening star against the twilight sky. In height medium, girlish, but
with a figure maturely modelled, charmingly full and rounded, yet by very
perfection of proportion escaping suggestion of "plumpness." The head,
surrounded and crowned with a wealth of dark golden hair, rested on a neck
that would have seemed short had its slender column sprung less graciously
from the lovely lines of the breast and shoulders beneath. It was on the
face, however, and finally on the eyes that one's glances inevitably
lingered--the face rose-tinted, with dimples in either of the full cheeks,
entering laughing protest against the sad droop that brought slightly down
the corners of a mouth too large perhaps for beauty, if the coral curve of
the lips had been less exquisitely perfect.
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