"Goodness, Aggie!" he gasped at last. "My whole scalp is as sore as a boil. I don't believe I can stand your scrubbing it any more."
"I don't mean to hurt you, Neale," panted Agnes.
"I know it. But isn't the color coming out?"
"I—I guess it's set. Maybe I've done more harm than good. It's a sort of a sickly green all over. I never did see such a head of hair, Neale! And it was so pretty before."
"Pretty!" growled Neale O'Neil. "It was a nuisance. Everybody who ever saw me remembered me as the 'white-haired boy.'"
"Well," sighed Agnes, "whoever sees that hair of yours now will remember you, and no mistake."
"And I have to go to school with it to-morrow," groaned Neale.
"It will grow out all right—in time," said the girl, trying to be comforting.
"It'll take more time than I want to spend with green hair," returned Neale. "I see what I'll have to do, Aggie."
"What's that?"