“Oh, it makes it look like mine!” exclaimed Helen, struck by the yellow gleam on Zaidie’s black hair.
“Does it?” asked Zaidie, eagerly. Each little girl was smitten with a boundless admiration of the other’s hair, for Helen’s fluffy corn-silk mop was a great trial to her quiet little soul, and she admired Zaidie’s smooth, silky black hair, with all her heart; while Zaidie, on the other hand, longed to possess Helen’s golden tangle.
“Put vasling thick all over my head,” she demanded, instantly, “to make it yellow. Perhaps mamma will let me wear it all the time, and then perhaps it will grow yellow like yours. I’d love that.”
“Then I wish I could make mine black like yours,” sighed Helen, wistfully. “Couldn’t I paint it, do you suppose?”
Zaidie clapped her hands over this delightful idea.
“Then we would have changed hairs! What fun! Let’s find something to paint it with, Helen. Here’s ’Liza’s shoe-blacking. Wouldn’t that do? It makes her shoes so shiny and black.”
At the sight of the black liquid, dainty Helen shrunk back a little.
“It—it wouldn’t get on my face, would it?” she asked, doubtfully. “I’d like to paint my hair, but I don’t want my face painted too.”
“Pooh, no!” said Zaidie, drawing out the sponge. “We’ll be careful. Now hold very still, Helen.”
The little hair-dresser drew a long dab with the dripping sponge over Helen’s yellow curls. Helen held her breath. Zaidie repeated the dabs, growing more reckless, till a careless flirt of the sponge sent a liberal spatter down Helen’s face, and on her white apron.