Rebecca came out on the steps and Aunt Jane brought a chair to
assist in the ascent. Miss Dearborn peeeped from the window, and
gave a despairing look at her favorite.
What had happened to her? Who had dressed her? Had her head been
put through a wringing-machine? Why were her eyes red and
swollen? Miss Dearborn determined to take her behind the trees
in the pine grove and give her some finishing touches; touches
that her skillful fingers fairly itched to bestow.
The stage started, and as the roadside pageant grew gayer and
gayer, Rebecca began to brighten and look prettier, for most of
her beautifying came from within. The people, walking, driving,
or standing on their doorsteps, cheered Uncle Sam's coach with
its freight of gossamer-muslined, fluttering-ribboned girls, and
just behind, the gorgeously decorated haycart, driven by Abijah
Flagg, bearing the jolly but inharmonious fife and drum corps.
Was ever such a golden day; such crystal air; such mellow
sunshine; such a merry Uncle Sam!
The stage drew up at an appointed spot near a pine grove, and
while the crowd was gathering, the children waited for the hour
to arrive when they should march to the platform; the hour toward
which they seemed to have been moving since the dawn of creation.
As soon as possible Miss Dearborn whispered to Rebecca: "Come
behind the trees with me; I want to make you prettier!"
Rebecca thought she had suffered enough from that process already
during the last twelve hours, but she put out an obedient hand
and the two withdrew.
Now Miss Dearborn was, I fear, a very indifferent teacher. Her
stock in trade was small, her principal virtues being devotion to
children and ability to gain their love, and a power of evolving
a schoolroom order so natural, cheery, serene, and peaceful that