We all missed Aunt Olivia greatly; she had been so merry and companionable, and had such a of understanding small fry. But youth quickly adapts itself to changed conditions; in a few weeks it seemed as if the Story Girl had always been living at Uncle Alec’s, and as if Uncle Roger had always had a fat, jolly with a double chin and little, twinkling blue eyes. I don’t think Aunt Janet ever quite got over missing Aunt Olivia, or looked upon Mrs. Hawkins as anything but a necessary evil; but life resumed its even on the King farm, broken only by the of excitement over the school concert and letters from Aunt Olivia describing her trip through the land of Evangeline. We incorporated the letters in Our Magazine under the heading “From Our Special Correspondent” and were very proud of them.
At the end of June our school concert came off and was a great event in our young lives. It was the first appearance of most of us on any platform, and some of us were very nervous. We all had recitations, except Dan, who had refused flatly to take any part and was consequently care-free.
“I’m sure I shall die when I find myself up on that platform, facing people,” sighed Sara Ray, as we talked the affair over in Uncle Stephen’s Walk the night before the concert.
“I’m afraid I’ll faint,” was Cecily’s more moderate foreboding.
“I’m not one single bit nervous,” said Felicity .
“I’m not nervous this time,” said the Story Girl, “but the first time I recited I was.”
“My Aunt Jane,” remarked Peter, “used to say that an old teacher of hers told her that when she was going to recite or speak in public she must just get it firmly into her mind that it was only a lot of cabbage heads she had before her, and she wouldn’t be nervous.”
“One mightn’t be nervous, but I don’t think there would be much inspiration in reciting to cabbage heads,” said the Story Girl decidedly. “I want to recite to PEOPLE, and see them looking interested and thrilled.”
“If I can only get through my piece without breaking down I don’t care whether I thrill people or not,” said Sara Ray.
“I’m afraid I’ll forget mine and get stuck,” foreboded Felix. “Some of you fellows be sure and prompt me if I do—and do it quick, so’s I won’t get worse .”
“I know one thing,” said Cecily , “and that is, I’m going to curl my hair for to-morrow night. I’ve never curled it since Peter almost died, but I simply must tomorrow night, for all the other girls are going to have theirs in curls.”
“The dew and heat will take all the curl out of yours and then you’ll look like a scarecrow,” warned Felicity.
“No, I won’t. I’m going to put my hair up in paper tonight and wet it with a curling-fluid that Judy Pineau uses. Sara brought me up a bottle of it. Judy says it is great stuff—your hair will keep in curl for days, no matter how damp the weather is. I’ll leave my hair in the papers till tomorrow evening, and then I’ll have beautiful curls.”
“You’d better leave your hair alone,” said Dan gruffly. “Smooth hair is better than a lot of fly-away curls.”
But Cecily was not to be persuaded. Curls she and curls she meant to have.
“I’m thankful my have all gone, any-way,” said Sara Ray.
“So they have,” exclaimed Felicity. “Did you try ’s recipe?”
“Yes. I didn’t believe in it but I tried it. For the first few days afterwards I kept watching my warts, but they didn’t go away, and then I gave up and forgot them. But one day last week I just happened to look at my hands and there wasn’t a to be seen. It was the most amazing thing.”
“And yet you’ll say Peg Bowen isn’t a witch,” said Peter.
“Pshaw, it was just the potato juice,” Dan.
“It was a dry old potato I had, and there wasn’t much juice in it,” said Sara Ray. “One hardly knows what to believe. But one thing is certain—my warts are gone.”
Cecily put her hair up in curl-papers that night, soaked in Judy Pineau’s curling-fluid. It was a nasty job, for the fluid was very sticky, but Cecily and got it done. Then she went to bed with a towel tied over her head to protect the pillow. She did not sleep well and had uncanny dreams, but she came down to breakfast with an expression of triumph. The Story Girl examined her head critically and said,
“Cecily, if I were you I’d take those papers out this morning.”
“Oh, no; if I do my hair will be straight again by night. I mean to leave them in till the last minute.”
“I wouldn’t do that—I really wouldn’t,” persisted the Story Girl. “If you do your hair will be too curly and all bushy and fuzzy.”
Cecily finally yielded and went upstairs with the Story Girl. Presently we heard a little shriek—then two little shrieks—then three. Then Felicity came flying down and called her mother. Aunt Janet went up and presently came down again with a grim mouth. She filled a large pan with warm water and carried it upstairs. We dared ask her no questions, but when Felicity came down to wash the dishes we bombarded her.
“What on earth is the matter with Cecily?” demanded Dan. “Is she sick?”
“No, she isn’t. I warned her not to put her hair in curls but she wouldn’t listen to me. I guess she wishes she had now. When people haven’t natural curly hair they shouldn’t try to make it curly. They get punished if they do.”
“Look here, Felicity, never mind all that. Just tell us what has happened Sis.”
“Well, this is what has happened her. That ninny of a Sara Ray brought up a bottle of mucilage instead of Judy’s curling-fluid, and Cecily put her hair up with THAT. It’s in an awful state.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Dan. “Look here, will she ever get it out?”
“Goodness knows. She’s got her head in soak now. Her hair is just matted together hard as a board. That’s what comes of vanity,” said Felicity, than whom no vainer girl existed.
Poor Cecily paid dearly enough for HER vanity. She spent a bad forenoon, made no easier by her mother’s severe . For an hour she “soaked” her head; that is, she stood over a panful of warm water and kept dipping her head in with tightly shut eyes. Finally her hair to be disentangled from the curl papers; and then Aunt Janet subjected it to a merciless shampoo. Eventually they got all the mucilage washed out of it and Cecily spent the remainder of the forenoon sitting before the open oven door in the hot kitchen drying her ill-used tresses. She felt very down-hearted; her hair was of that order which, and smooth normally, is dry and harsh and for several days after being shampooed.
“I’ll look like a fright tonight,” said the poor child to me with trembling voice. “The ends will be sticking out all over my head.”
“Sara Ray is a perfect idiot,” I said wrathfully
“Oh, don’t be hard on poor Sara. She didn’t mean to bring me mucilage. It’s really all my own fault, I know. I made a solemn when Peter was dying that I would never curl my hair again, and I should have kept it. It isn’t right to break solemn . But my hair will look like dried hay tonight.”
Poor Sara Ray was quite overwhelmed when she came up and found what she had done. Felicity was very hard on her, and Aunt Janet was coldly , but sweet Cecily forgave her unreservedly, and they walked to the school that night with their arms about each other’s waists as usual.
The school-room was crowded with friends and neighbours. Mr. Perkins was flying about, getting things into readiness, and Miss Reade, who was the organist of the evening, was sitting on the platform, looking her sweetest and prettiest. She wore a white lace hat with a fetching little wreath of tiny forget-me-nots around the brim, a white muslin dress with sprays of blue violets over i............