"Where did you put your war-paint and feathers?" asked Polly, as they ran. up the steps, rosy and breathless from facing the strong wind.
"My war-paint, ma'am! It's yours. I'm a civilized white man, named Smith," returned Alan, as he pulled off his coat in the hall. "I left them in a corner of the dining-room."
"I'll get them." And Polly vanished.
"You see," Alan went on, as she reappeared. "We know our parts well enough, I suppose; but I wanted to get used to seeing you in full rig, before the time came. I was afraid, if you suddenly appeared to me, I should laugh and spoil our best scene."
"Don't you dare do that!" returned Polly sternly. "If you laugh, I'll let Jean cut off your head, and not try to save you. But it's a good idea to have a chance to go through it, while we are all alone by ourselves. Our parts are best of all, and I want to do them as well as we can for Jean's sake, she has taken so much pains to write it up."
"Yes," added the captain ungratefully, "and I'd like to have you try over that rushing out and tumbling down on top of me. The last time you did it, you. nearly knocked the breath out of my body. You'd better go a little slower, Poll, or you'll kill me as surely as Jean would,—and I don't know but what her way would be about as comfortable as yours."
"We've plenty of time and the house to ourselves," said Polly meekly; "so we can try it over and over, till I get it right."
"What a prospect!" groaned Alan. "When we get through, you'll have to take me to the hospital and put me in with those youngsters, where I was to-day."
"All right," returned Polly, laughing; "but if I ever do kill you, don't expect me to tell of it. Now let's come up into mamma's room and dress in front of her long mirror."
The dressing was a prolonged and hilarious operation, for each in turn helped the other to don his costume, stopping now and then to burst out laughing at the results of their labors. Alan, it is true, made a very attractive young captain, though, with a fine disregard for dates, he was attired in the moth-eaten, faded uniform with tarnished brass buttons and epaulettes which one of his ancestors had worn during the Revolutionary War. But the ancestor had been several sizes larger than his nineteenth century descendant, and the uniform lay in generous folds over the back and shoulders, and was turned up at wrist and ankle, while the great cocked hat, pushed back to show the yellow hair in front, rested on the boy's shoulders behind. However, a truer, tenderer, more valiant heart never beat in old-time captain, than was throbbing in Alan's breast that day, when he held forlorn little Dicky Morris on his knee.