“Never mind St. Paul;” said Jacob, “it will make at least a dozen frizettes, good full ones at that!”
“Well—here goes then, Miss Lucy,” and snipping the sharp shears, down fall the curls in a golden shower one after another upon the floor. Jacob meanwhile looked on in delighted astonishment.
“There miss,” said old Mr. Wynne, rubbing some cologne over her cropped head, “I think it is a chance if your own mother would know you now.”
“Never fear,” said Lucy, passing her hand over her shaven crown; and tying on her bonnet without stopping to look in the glass.
“It has really quite changed her,” said Mr. Wynne, pocketing his shilling, as Lucy went out the door; “but as you say, Jacob, those curls are worth something to us.”
On flew Lucy, as if wings were at her heels, and bursting into the parlor, where her brothers, and sisters, and mother were sitting, twitched off her bonnet, and stood to be admired.
Such a shout!
“What’s the matter?” said the astonished Lucy.
“Look in the glass—only look in the glass,” was all the merry laughers could say. “Oh, Lucy, what a fright you are!”
“An escaped bedlamite,” said her brother John.