The day's hours were hardly enough for the day's plans, for there were farewell coasting, skating, and sleighing parties, besides active daily preparations for the pantomime. The costumes of the hoys were gorgeous to behold, and were fashioned entirely by the girls' clever fingers. They consisted of scarlet or blue flannel shirts, short plaid kilts, colored stockings striped with braid, sashes worn over shoulders, and jaunty little caps with bobbing quills.
On the last happy evening of their stay, the eventful evening of “Young Lochinvar,” the guests gathered from all the surrounding country to see the frolic. There were people from North Edgewood, South Edgewood, East Edge-wood, and West Edgewood; from Edgewood Upper Corner, Edgewood Lower Corner, and Edgewood Four Corners, and everybody had brought his uncles and cousins.
In the big dressing-room the young actors were assembled,—and fortunately in a high state of exuberance and excitement, else they would have been decidedly frightened at the ordeal before them. Jo, mirror in hand, was trying to make herself look seventy; and, though she had not succeeded, she had transformed herself into a very presentable Scottish dame, with her short satin gown and apron, lace kerchief and spectacles. Edith was giving a pair of pointed burnt-cork eyebrows to Hugh, that he might wear a sufficiently dashing and defiant countenance for Lochinvar, while Jack stood before the glass practicing his meek expression for the jilted bridegroom.
Bell had sunk into a chair, and folded her hands to “get up” her courage. As to her dress, nobody knew whether it was the proper one for a Scottish bride or not; but it was the only available thing, and certainly she looked in it a very bewitching and sufficient excuse for Lochinvar's rash folly. It was of some shining white material, and came below the ankle, just showing a pair of jaunty high-heeled slippers; the skirt was 'broidered and flounced to the belt, the waist simple and full, with short puffed sleeves; while a bridal veil and dainty crown of flowers made her as winsome and bonny as a white Scottish rose. Emma Jane Perkins stood in one corner paralyzed by her own good looks. Her red hair was waved and hanging in her neck, and her dress was white. She hoped she could be trusted to bring in this overpowering weight of beauty at the right moment, but felt a little doubtful.
Uncle Harry stumbled in at the low door.
“Are you ready, young fry?” asked he. “It is half-past seven, and we ought to begin.”
“Put out the footlights, give the people back their money, and tell them the prima donna is dangerously ill!” gasped Bell, faintly, fanning herself with a box-cover. “I don't believe I can ever do it. Hugh, are you perfectly sure our horse won't break down on the stage when we elope?”