And her hair! It was certainly
not as abundant as it used to be, it had wearied her, once, to brush out
its thick glossy length; it was becoming unmistakably thinner; she was
certainly slightly bald about the temples, and white hairs were
straggling in one after another, not attempting to conceal themselves. A
year ago she had selected them from the mass of black and cut them short,
but now they were appearing too fast for the scissors. It was a sad face,
almost a gloomy one, that she was gazing into: for the knowledge that her
forty years had done their work in her face as surely, and perhaps not as
sweetly as in her life had come to her with a shock. She was certainly
growing older and the signs of it were in her face, nothing could hide
it, even her increasing seriousness made it more apparent; not only
growing older, but growing old, the girls would say. Twenty years ago,
when she first began to write that birthday record, she had laughed at
forty and called it "old" herself. As she laid the hand-glass aside with
a half-checked sigh, her eyes fell upon her hand and wrist; it was
certainly losing its shapeliness; the fingers were as tapering as ever
and the palm as pink, but--there was a something that reminded her of
that plate of old china. She might be like a bit of old china, but she
was not ready to be laid upon the shelf, not even to be paid a price for
and be admired! She was in the full rush of her working days. Awhile ago
her friends had all addressed her as "Prudence," but now, she was not
aware when it began or how, she was "Miss Prudence" to every one who was
not within the nearest circle of intimacy.
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