"What in the world are you laughing at, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's
voice at her door. "The breakfast bell has rung, and it's time you
were down-stairs."

"Yes'm," replied Polly, suddenly becoming sober again, as she
remembered that she must present herself to the family in this
plight, and would probably be well laughed at for her pains.

She delayed in her room as long as she dared, but her mother had
always insisted on perfect regularity at meal times, and Polly
knew that she must appear. With one last, despairing glance at the
mirror, a glance which was by no means reassuring, she turned away
and silently went down the stairs and into the dining-room, hoping
to take her place at the table so quietly that she could escape
notice. It was not her mother whom she dreaded, but she shrank
from her father's teasing and Aunt Jane's merciless comments. As
she drew her chair up to the table, Aunt Jane glanced up from her
oatmeal.

"Late again, Polly! Why, what have you been putting on your face,
child?"

Polly's cheeks grew scarlet, but she answered, with an attempt at
carelessness,--

"Oh, nothing but a little buttermilk. Why?"

"Why?" responded Aunt Jane, with needless emphasis, "I should
think you'd better ask why! Have you looked in the glass this
morning?"