Just at that particular angle one eye appeared to be as large as an orange , while the other was the size of a pea , and the mouth zigzagged from ear to ear . Sidney hated that mirror as virulently as she could hate anything . It seemed to her to typify all that was unlovely in her life . The mirror of existence into which her fresh young soul had looked for twenty years gave back to her wistful gaze just such distortions of fair hopes and ideals . Half of the little table by which she sat was piled high with books -- old books , evidently well read and well-bred books , classics of fiction and verse every one of them , and all bearing on the flyleaf the name of Sidney Richmond , thereby meaning not the girl at the table , but her college-bred young father who had died the day before she was born . Her mother had died the day after , and Sidney thereupon had come into the hands of good Aunt Jane , with those books for her dowry , since nothing else was left after the expenses of the double funeral had been paid . One of the books had Sidney Richmond 's name printed on the title-page instead of written on the flyleaf . It was a thick little volume of poems , published in his college days -- musical , unsubstantial , pretty little poems , every one of which the girl Sidney loved and knew by heart . Sidney dropped her pointed chin in her hands and looked dreamily out into the moonlit night , while she thought her letter out a little more fully before beginning to write . Her big brown eyes were full of wistfulness and romance ; for Sidney was romantic , albeit a faithful and understanding acquaintance with her father 's books had given to her romance refinement and reason , and the delicacy of her own nature had imparted to it a self-respecting bias . Presently she began to write , with a flush of real excitement on her face . In the middle of things the baby choked on a small twist spool and Sidney had to catch him up by the heels and hold him head downward until the trouble was ejected . Then she had to soothe him , and finally write the rest of her letter holding him on one arm and protecting the epistle from the grabs of his sticky little fingers . It was certainly letter-writing under difficulties , but Sidney seemed to deal with them mechanically . Her soul and understanding were elsewhere . Four years before , when Sidney was sixteen , still calling herself a schoolgirl by reason of the fact that she could be spared to attend school four months in the winter when work was slack , she had been much interested in the `` Maple Leaf '' department of the Montreal weekly her uncle took . It was a page given over to youthful Canadians and filled with their contributions in the way of letters , verses , and prize essays . Noms de plume were signed to these , badges were sent to those who joined the Maple Leaf Club , and a general delightful sense of mystery pervaded the department . Often a letter concluded with a request to the club members to correspond with the writer . One such request went from Sidney under the pen-name of `` Ellen Douglas . ''
The girl was lonely in Plainfield ; she had no companions or associates such as she cared for ; the Maple Leaf Club represented all that her life held of outward interest , and she longed XXXXX something more .
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