The distinctive thing about Katie was that there always seemed a certain light about her, upon her, coming from her.

Usually it was as iridescent lights dancing upon the water; but to-night it was more as one light, a more steady, deeper light.

It made her gray eyes almost black; made her clear-cut nose and chin seem more finely chiseled than they actually were, and brought out both the strength and the tenderness of her not very small mouth.

Katie's friends, when pinned down to it, always admitted with some little surprise that she was not pretty; they made amends for that, however, in saying that she just missed being beautiful.
"But that's not what you think of when you see her," they would tell you.
"You think, 'What a good sort! She must be great fun!'" And there were some few who would add: "Katie is the kind you would expect to find doing splendid service in that last ditch." Yet even those few were not familiar with the Katie Jones of that moment, for it was a new Katie, less new when leaning forward, tense, puzzled, hand clenched, brow knitted, her whole well-knit, athletic body at attention than when leaning back--lax, open to new and awesome things.
And as though she must come back where she felt acquainted with herself, she suddenly began to whistle.

Katie found whistling a convenient and pleasant recepticle for excess emotion.