She sat silent, watching in the glass the amazing vision of Linda combing and brushing the freed locks which seemed making the most of their escape to fly in all directions and encircle the excited face with a bright aureole. Linda turned and smiled at Mrs. Porter, who nodded appreciation. Many a fine lady would gladly pay a small fortune for the luxuriant shining waves that rippled now under Linda's brush.
"I suppose your hair is straight," she said.
"As a poker," agreed its owner promptly. "I douse it good when I have to braid it over and you'd better too, Miss Linda. You can't never braid it the way it is now; and it likes to git the best of you."
The speaker eyed her halo vindictively. Her hair was an ancient enemy and only her mother's commands had protected its existence.
"When did you wash it?"
"Last week. I don't never wash it winters, but summers Miss Barry makes me."
"You don't need to wash it often in this clean place; but brush it a lot with your white brush. Will you, Blanche Aurora?"
This was a more awful demand than Linda realized. Overwhelmed as she was with benefits her beneficiary demurred.
"I can't only once in a few days."
"But you're going to braid it every day now."