The costumes were a study, and Ef May who strange to say didn’t feel at all sleepy herself, found it rare fun to watch them.
There were old ladies, who minus their false fronts, teeth, and spectacles, would never have been recognized by their most intimate friends, in “calf’s-head” night-caps tied tightly under their chins, short night-gowns with wide, crimped ruffles at neck and wrists, and blue flannel petticoats just short enough to show the felt slippers beneath; young ladies, whose wealth of curls, braids and puffs had many a time excited the admiration and envy of their less fortunate sisters, appeared here, looking like picked chickens, their luxuriant tresses packed away in a drawer, their flounces, and ruffles, and panniers, and overskirts, all safe in the closet, their jewelry and their smiles laid aside together, and they nodded indifferently to stately gentlemen in tasselled night-caps and gorgeous dressing gowns, or frowned aside upon the boys, who, in all sorts of night gear, bobbed about in the most desirable nooks and corners, disturbing everybody with their clumsy ways and sleepy drollery.
In short, taken as a whole, a comical looking set they were,—and so stupid! Ef May felt somewhat hurt and a good deal offended when even her new friend dropped off into a doze instead of listening to her questions, and she was only too glad when a good looking young gentleman with a pen behind his ear and a roll of manuscript sticking out of the pocket of his dressing gown, walked leisurely up to her and began talking in a queer rambling fashion about the people around them.
“What makes some of the sleepiest folks groan and grumble so, all the time?” asked the little girl curiously, and her companion laughed, a queer, dreamy sort of a laugh, as he replied:
“Oh, those are the ones that came here on nightmares,—that sort of riding always makes people restless, it’s worse than a hobby for that!”
He spoke the last words with a sudden fierceness that startled her, but he didn’t seem to notice her frightened face for he kept on talking, in that steady but far off tone:
“Do you see that man there with his face all twisted up into a knot? That’s the head master of the Boys’ Grammar School,—he ate toasted cheese for his supper and he’s having a hard night of it,—no doubt the boys will have a hard time of it, to-morrow.”
Ef May thought of brother Gus’ careless scholarship, and trembled.
“There’s a little girl that told a lie to her mother,—hear her moan and sob! She will confess her fault and ask to be forgiven, in the morning, I think.”
Ef May silently took the lesson to heart.