"Oh, Wee," she said, "I'm scared to death! I believe I'm threatened with stage fright. Do you know how it comes on? Feel my hands."
She laid an icy lump in Wee's warm palm tremblingly.
"Absurd!" Wee said. "Did you think you caught it—like measles or chicken-pox?"
"I think it's caught me, Wee. I feel so sort of choky—and queer."
"You'll get over it. Don't worry. You look too sweet for words. Take a peek at the stage. It's a dream."
It was a pretty setting. Along the light green walls were white curtained windows in whose boxes grew bright, red roses, and swinging from the dimly lighted ceiling was the green and yellow shamrock presented by a former class. The stage represented a simple room in an Irish peasant's cottage, with its brick fireplace and high cupboards. Blue Bonnet was exclaiming over its loveliness when a voice at the centre entrance interrupted her.
"Wee!" it called excitedly. "You're wanted in Clare Peters' dressing-room instantly. They've sent her the wrong wig. It should be grey, and its blond and curly—imagine!—Clare's frantic."
Wee and Blue Bonnet both hastened to the dressing-room. Clare Peters, a somewhat spoiled, flighty girl, accustomed to having her way in most things, stood before the mirror in tears.
"I can't do a thing with it," she said. "I told that stupid man at the costumer's that it had to be grey—I—"
"Go for Sue Hemphill," Wee commanded, and Blue Bonnet fled in haste.