Hetty was fifteen, about the age that the little sister might now have been.

Reine sat up in her bed and counted the years between fifteen and twenty-one twice over on her fingers to make perfectly sure.

Hetty was the very age of the little sister.

And so like her mother! If the baby sister of whom she had been bereft could be still alive, then Reine would have declared she must be Hetty.
She was now in a fever of excitement.

Her curly brown hair had risen in a mop of rings and ringlets around her head with tossing on her pillow, her eyes were round and bright, and a burning spot was on each of her cheeks.