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female writers were grudgingly accepted, as was the talented and famous Jane Austin. But Jane Austen was the exception, women were still forced to write under men’s names.
    When Celia was eight or nine she had asked her mother if she was pretty. Her mother had answered that she was "passable." Celia had asked her mother to explain. Margaretta had brushed the explanation aside by admonishing her not to think too much about her appearance, an admonishment she never deemed necessary to use on Bella.
    Celia had found out from others what the word meant and for a day or two was unhappy that it meant she wasn't really pretty. Celia had never asked her mother again about her looks and though as she grew up she had turned into a very attractive young woman she unconsciously retained in her mind that "passable" description of herself.
    Celia was not beautiful in the accepted mode of the day, which was a round and child-like face, fair curls and rounded figure. This cupid-like ideal had been carried to such extremes that foolish girls often stuffed cotton wads in their cheeks to make them rounder and this in turn made them speak with a lisp, which also became a fad.
    Celia had hair the color of dark honey, crystal green eyes and high cheekbones, a slender figure and a light attractive walk. Her cheekbones were a favorite subject with her mother, who never tired of advising her to stuff pads in them if she had any hopes of ever getting married. "Those angles in your face keep you from attracting the right gentleman, Celia."
    "The gentleman who is attracted to me, if there ever is one,” Celia had countered, “must be happy with me and the ‘angles’ in my cheeks as you describe them, for it would be quite an effort for me to mentally be separating the wads from the food I eat so that I don’t choke on a wad stuck to my throat were I to be foolish enough to follow your advice.”
    Mrs. Meade often sighed on looking at her daughter Celia. She was as beyond her control as a wild colt, and looked it too.
    Celia was beautiful in a manner very different from Bella’s. Often, the light fell on her in such a way that it brought out the honey tones in her hair and lend a glow to her beautiful complexion and the rosiness of her full lips. She was the equal of her sister in beauty and at times even surpassed her.
    Celia enjoyed her walk, chasing unsettling thoughts from her mind. It was a perfect day and she determined to enjoy it. There was a woodsy scent and the breeze was skipping about lightly under the sun which peeked behind clouds and now and then made an appearance.
    Finally the sun, now freed from scud clouds lit up the path she was following. The stillness of the wood was disturbed only by the occasional scurrying of squirrels and rabbits and the chirping of birds. Celia stopped now and then to enjoy a cascade of bluebells and wood sorrel, ferns with web-like leaves as delicate as the breeze and moss hanging on the trunks of the trees.
    She followed tiny lanes that branched off the main path and was certain there would come a time when she would know this little wood better than anyone else.
    Finally, she reached an opening where a crescent-shaped meadow marked the border where land belonging to Shelton Hall began.
    She was tempted to cross the meadow that smelled of wet earth and grass and roots of spring wildflowers breaking through the earth.
    Uncle Worth, on describing his estate, had once told her that the Delaney woods were not used for hunting, not being stocked with enough pheasants, and that Tom preferred hunting at Lowell Manor with his friends there. So much the better, she thought, for she was sure to have the wood to herself and not be surprised by the sound of gunshot. She didn't know what habits the Shelton people had but she would ask Uncle Worth.
    She realized she had left the end of the Delaney wood sometime back and a great field was between the two forested areas. In the distance, across a crescent-shaped field