“Well, do you know,” said Sallie, visibly brightening, “I did think just exactly that. I wake up nights and worry about it. Oh, Jean! I do wish you’d poke me up once in awhile, whenever you see me losing my backbone or looking like Abbie—”
“You don’t look like Abbie—you couldn’t. Abbie never was pretty or bright and you are. Wait, I want to give you these history notes I dug up—I know they kept you busy all study hour sorting the clean clothes so of course you didn’t have time to look anything up. You’ll just have to have splendid marks from now on.”
“You’re a darling!” cried Sallie, rubbing her cheek against Jean’s. “I wish you’d reached Hiltonburg a whole lot sooner. I needed you.”
[CHAPTER VIII—BRAVE VICTORIA]
Almost at once, there was one very curious and amusing result of Madame Bolande’s friendship for “Gladys de Milligan.” Madame, who apparently took no interest in her own hair, professed great admiration for that of the new pupil and offered to teach her a new and even fancier way of arranging it.
One night, to that end, Madame mixed an exceedingly sticky something in a cup—quince seed and water, Laura explained afterwards—and applied it to Laura’s pale yellow locks. After plastering them down in large wet rings all over Laura’s foolish head, Madame fished the remnant of an old green veil from her untidy bureau drawer and tied it firmly over the slippery mass. Her intentions were perfectly good but the result was surprising.
By morning, the quince seed was dry and it was possible to brush the stuff, in a powdery shower of white particles, from the mass of loose curls. But alas! A shocking thing had happened. The dye in the green veil had proved anything but permanent. It had spent the night running. Poor Gladys Evelyn appeared late for breakfast with red eyes and bright green hair. It was at least a month before her tangled locks lost their verdant hue.
“Never mind, Gladys,” soothed Grace Allen. “Mermaids have green hair and you know how beautiful they are.”
Oddly enough, this curious mishap made several new friends for Gladys among the girls, whose ready sympathy was aroused for an unfortunate maiden who had to go about with pale green hair. Augusta Lemon was one of those tender hearted young persons, Lillian Thwaite another. About this time, too, Grace Allen began to wander about, arm in arm, with Gladys.
Cora Doyle, to whom the Lakeville girls were greatly indebted for much of the past history of Highland Hall, proved a likeable girl, after one learned not to believe all that she said. Cora just naturally exaggerated. When she was cold she was absolutely frozen. When she was warm, she was positively boiled. If she possessed one black and blue spot she knew she had ten thousand and if she were slightly indisposed she was positive she was dying. In short, she called “Wolf, Wolf,” when the wolf was conspicuously absent.