let you wear it first trying to be nice to you!"

Then Missy, who had been genuinely moved by Tess's decision that the
first wearing of the costume should make up for her chum's week of
punishment, pulled herself together.

"Of course I want to wear it," she declared. "I think it's just fine
of you to let me wear it first."

She spoke sincerely; yet, within the hour, she was plotting to
return her friend's sacrifice with a sort of mean trick. Perhaps it
was fit and just that the trick turned topsy-turvy on herself as it
did. Yet the notion did not come to her in the guise of a trick on
Tess. No; it came just as a daring, dashing, splendid feat in which
she herself should triumphantly figure--she scarcely thought of Tess
at all.

It came upon her, in all its dazzling possibilities, while she was
cantering along the old road which runs back of Smith's woods. She
and Tess had agreed it would be best, till they'd "broke in"
Cherryvale to the novelty of breeches, to keep to unfrequented
roads. But it was the inconspicuousness of the route, the lack of an
admiring audience, which gave birth to Missy's startling Idea. Back
in the barn she'd felt self-conscious. But now she was getting used
to her exposed legs. And doing really splendidly on Dr. O'Neill's
saddle. Sitting there astride, swaying in gentle rhythm with Gypsy's
springing motion she began to feel truly dashing, supremely swagger.
She seemed lifted out of herself, no longer timid, commonplace,
unathletic Missy Merriam, but exalted into a sort of free-and-easy,
Princess Royal of Swaggerdom. She began to wish someone might see