The baby she had thought so ugly was in reality a white-winged angel,
mild-eyed and pitying; while the hump-backed boy represented a patience
so tender that it beautified everything upon which it shone. She
thought she recognized in one of the pictures a frock of filmy lace
that she remembered to have seen before; but the form it encased was
strange to her, so ill-shapen and unlovely it looked; while the face
was so repulsive that she shrank from it with horror.
"Is that what I thought was the pretty girl?" she murmured tremulously.
"Yes," replied the beam, simply.
The next portrait was that of the silver-haired old lady whom Marjorie
had thought so crooked and bowed. She saw now why her shoulders were
bent. It was because of the mass of memories she carried,--memories
gathered through a long and useful life. Her silver hair made a halo
about her head.
"The next is yours," breathed the voice at her side, softly. "Will you
look?"
Marjorie gave a quick start, and her voice quivered sadly as she
cried,--
"Oh, blessed sunbeam, don't force me to see it! Let me go back and try
to be better before I see my likeness. I am afraid now. The outside
prettiness is n't anything, unless one's spirit is lovely too; and I--I
could not look, for I know--I know how hateful mine would be. I have
learned about it now, and it's like a book; if the story the book tells
is not beautiful, the pictures won't be good to see.
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