"Won't be Barbara Frietchie!" cried Leslie, with an astonishment as if it had been angelhood refused.
"No. Barbara Frietchie is only an old woman in a cap and kerchief, and she just puts her head out of a window: the flag is the whole of it, Ginevra Thoresby says."
"May I do it? Do you think I can be different enough in the two? Will there be time?" Leslie questioned eagerly.
"We'll change the programme, and put 'Taking the Oath' between. The caps can be different, and you can powder your hair for one, and—would it do to ask Miss Craydocke for a front for the other?" Sin Saxon had grown delicate in her feeling for the dear old friend whose hair had once been golden.
"I'll tell her about it, and ask her to help me contrive. She'll be sure to think of anything that can be thought of."
"Only there's the dance afterward, and you had so much more costume for the other," Sin Saxon said demurringly.
"Never mind. I shall be Barbara; and Barbara wouldn't dance, I suppose."
"Mother Hubbard would, marvelously."
"Never mind," Leslie answered again, laying down the little slipper, finished.
"She don't care what she is, so that she helps along," Sin Saxon said of her, rejoining the others in the hall. "I'm ashamed of myself and all the rest of you, beside her. Now make yourselves as fine as you please."