We pass rapidly over the first ten years of Alice's life,
only pausing to say that she throve well under the kind
care of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, whom she looked
upon as her parents, for she knew no others. As she increased
in stature and years, her personal appearance was
remarked and commented upon by the matrons of the
mountains, as well as those of the village at the foot of
the mountain.

One would say, “She and old Herndon looked as much
alike as two peas,” while another would answer, “Yes,
only Alice has got such strange, scornful eyes. They
look at you as though they could read all your thoughts.”
And now I suppose some reader will say, “How did Alice
look, and what was it about her eyes?” So here
follows a description of Alice as she was at ten years
of age.

Naturally healthy, the strength of her constitution was
greatly increased by the mountain air and exercise to
which she was daily accustomed. Still, in form she was
delicate, and Aunt Polly often expressed her fears that
the poor child would never attain her height, which was
five feet ten inches! Alice's features were tolerably regular,
and her complexion was as white and pure as the
falling snow. Indeed, there was something almost

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startling in the marble whiteness of her face, contrasting, as it
did, with the blackness of her hair, which hung in short,
tangled curls about her neck, forehead, and eyes. Those
eyes we will speak of, ere long. We are not yet through
with Alice's hair, which cost her poor mother a world of
trouble. Do what she might, it would curl. Soak it in
suds as long as she chose, and as soon as it dried, it curled
more than ever! What a pest it was! Aunt Polly
couldn't spend her time in curling hair, and as Alice did
not know how, there seemed but one alternative — cut it
off; but this Alice would not suffer, so one hour every
Sunday morning was devoted to combing and curling
the really handsome hair, which during the week hung
in wild disorder about her face, becoming each day more
and more tangled and matted, until it was not strange
that Alice thought she should surely die if it were combed
more than once a week.

Now for those eyes. After all, there was nothing so
very goblin-like about them. They were merely very
large, very black, and very bright, and seemed, indeed,
to look into the recesses of one's soul, and pry out his inmost
thoughts. There was a world of pride and scorn
beneath the long silken eyelashes, which seemed so seldom
to be closed, for as one of the villagers said, “Alice's
eyes were always looking, looking at you.” On occasions
when Aunt Polly was engaged in her favorite occupation
of fortune-telling, Alice's eyes would flash forth
her utter contempt of the whole matter, and many a
young maiden, shamed by the scorn of the little wild girl,
as she was called, would conclude not to have “her fortune
told.”

It was seldom, however, that Alice honored her mother's
company by her presence. She seemed to prefer the
woods, the birds, and flowers for her companions.

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Sometimes she would steal away into the little bed-room, which
joined her mother's sitting-room, and there, unobserved,
she would watch, through a hole in the door, the countenances
and proceedings of the company around her
mother's tea-table. Often would some of the guests be
startled by the fixed gaze of those large, black eyes,
which seemed to look with such haughty pity on the
farce which always followed one of Aunt Polly's tea-drinkings.