"I don't want him to see it this way," she said, "for he'd say it's a sin to have curly, pretty hair, even if God made it grow that way! He's awful queer! I wouldn't want him for my adopted brother."
"Guess he'd keep you hopping," laughed David.
"Guess I'd keep him hopping, too," retorted Phœbe, at which the boy laughed.
"Now what do I do?" he asked when all the hair was untangled.
"Part it in the middle and make two plaits."
"Um-uh."
The boy's clumsy fingers fumbled long with the parting; several times the braids twisted and had to be undone, but after a struggle he was able to announce, "There now, you're fixed! Now you're Phœbe Metz, no more prima donna!"
"Thanks, David, for helping me. I feel much better around the head—guess curls would be a nuisance after all."
