Miss Ellen Young was tired of being called beautiful.

As she gazed into the gilt-framed mirror, wrinkling her pert nose, pursing her rosebud lips, and narrowing her lake-blue eyes, she scowled at her reflection. Perhaps if she held this facial expression for an hour, a wrinkle would result. Or perhaps if the rain would stop for an afternoon, she could traipse through gardens and earn a few freckles…