On the night of the "regular party" she stood by with motherly solicitude while Rosalie piled her golden curls high on her head and drew little shining rings down low before her ears.
"I suppose even we preachers can fix our hair in style," she said in the ripply unruffled voice. For regardless of the clash of circumstances with her personal opinions and wants, Rosalie seldom showed real annoyance. But she fingered the bands at the throat of her dress and glanced at Doris with speculating, shining eyes.
The General, with her soft curls drooping tenderly about her face, with her wide frank eyes, wearing a white dress cut on simple lines, seemed a nice and bashful child beside her younger sister, who stoutly decreed that eyes are a talent, given one for cultivation.
When the Andriesons sounded their horn at the gate of the manse the girls ran down-stairs together, hand in hand.
"How do we look, father?" asked Doris, standing before him, straight and slim.
"Like a fresh white morning-glory," he said, kissing her.
"And how do I look?" dimpled Rosalie, drooping her warm eyes behind long lashes, and smiling seductively.
"Like an enchanted poppy tossing in the wind. Don't try to practise your blandishments on me, you little siren. Run along to your social, and be good girls, and don't you flirt, Miss Rosalie, or you'll have to go to an extra prayer-meeting next week."
Catching a hand of each, with Zee and Treasure shouting in the rear, he ran down the steps with them and out the stone walk to the motor, whirring impatiently. Then the car rolled away, and the girls sauntered back to the house, their arms around their father.