the nightly chats in Watson's store it was alluded to as the way
little Becky Randall got the flag away from Slippery Simpson.
Dramatic as it was, it passed into the crowd of half-forgotten
things in Rebecca's mind, its brief importance submerged in the
glories of the next day.
There was a painful prelude to these glories. Alice Robinson came
to spend the night with Rebecca, and when the bedroom door closed
upon the two girls, Alice announced her intention of "doing up"
Rebecca's front hair in leads and rags, and braiding the back in
six tight, wetted braids.
Rebecca demurred. Alice persisted.
"Your hair is so long and thick and dark and straight," she said,
"that you'll look like an Injun!"
"I am the State of Maine; it all belonged to the Indians once,"
Rebecca remarked gloomily, for she was curiously shy about
discussing her personal appearance.
"And your wreath of little pine-cones won't set decent without
crimps," continued Alice.
Rebecca glanced in the cracked looking-glass and met what she
considered an accusing lack of beauty, a sight that always either
saddened or enraged her according to circumstances; then she sat
down resignedly and began to help Alice in the philanthropic work
of making the State of Maine fit to be seen at the raising.
Neither of the girls was an expert hairdresser, and at the end of
an hour, when the sixth braid was tied, and Rebecca had given one
last shuddering look in the mirror, both were ready to weep with
fatigue.
The candle was blown out and Alice soon went to sleep, but
Rebecca tossed on her pillow, its goose-feathered softness all
dented by the cruel lead knobs and the knots of twisted rags.