Lucy ran to the glass—the blush which overspread her cheeks and temples might plainly be seen crimsoning the very roots of her shaved hair. “Did old Mr. Wynne put a bowl on your hair, and cut it to the shape of it?” asked John, holding his sides.
Poor Lucy! She did not expect that old Mr. Wynne would make her so ridiculous a figure. Rushing up-stairs into her room and into bed, she sprang between the sheets, and drawing them tightly over her unfortunate head, sobbed out her vexation.
By-and-by her mother came up.
“Lucy.”
“Oh, mother, I did not think he would make me such a fright. Why did you let me go, mother?”
“Because I thought the loss of my little daughter’s curls would be but a small sacrifice, should it cure her of that impetuous, impatient spirit which leads her into so many difficulties. I could easily, my dear child, have cut your curls (were it advisable to do so) in such a way as not to disfigure you; but, as usual, you asked no advice, and thought you knew best about it. Mr. Wynne is much better at scraping men’s chins than at cutting young girls’ hair.”
“But can’t you fix me up a little, mother? I don’t want John to call me ‘a bedlamite.’”
“Don’t lie a-bed then, Lucy.”
Lucy was too troubled to laugh; but she got up slowly, and her mother managed, with a comb, a brush, and a little water, to coax up the few hairs she had left, as only a mother’s fingers know how.
Now, when Lucy has any pet plan in that little head of hers, she always goes to her mother first, and says, “Tell me what you think about it, mother.”