But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she gazed into the
water. She knew that she was beautiful of course; her beauty was too
obvious to be overlooked, and besides it had been brought home to her in
several more or less disagreeable ways.
"Seven years," she was thinking, "since the night of the 'death fog;'
that was what old Edward called it, and so it was. I was only so high
then," and following her thoughts she touched herself upon the breast.
"And I was happy too in my own way. Why can't one always be fifteen,
and believe everything one is told?" and she sighed. "Seven years and
nothing done yet. Work, work, and nothing coming out of the work, and
everything fading away. I think that life is very dreary when one has
lost everything, and found nothing, and loves nobody. I wonder what it
will be like in another seven years."
She covered her eyes with her hands, and then taking them away, once
more looked at the water. Such light as struggled through the fog
was behind her, and the mist was thickening. At first she had some
difficulty in tracing her own likeness upon the glassy surface, but
gradually she marked its outline.
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