I believe she had brought me some apples that day when she came,
and that made me feel kindly toward her. The light on her hair
gave it a reddish look, quite auburn. Presently, she withdrew her eyes
from the sky, and let them fall into her lap with a sort of long,
sighing breath, and slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second
some one jocularly fired this question at her: "Well, Cousin Fanny,
give us your views," and her expression changed back to that which
she ordinarily wore.
"Oh, my views, like other people's, vary from my practice," she said.
"It is not views, but experiences, which are valuable in life.
When I shall have been married twice I will tell you."
"While there's life there's hope, eh?" hazarded some one;
for teasing an old maid, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate.
"Yes, indeed," and she left the room, smiling, and went up-stairs.
This was one of the occasions when her eyes looked well. There were others
that I remember, as sometimes when she was in church; sometimes when
she was playing with little children; and now and then when,
as on that evening, she was sitting still, gazing out of the window.
But usually her eyes were weak, and she wore the green shade,
which gave her face a peculiar pallor, making her look old,
and giving her a pained, invalid expression.
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