"I could not change my eyes," she mused, "but I don't believe that would matter. Adele's are sometimes so dark that they seem black. But oh dear! My complexion is horrid, and my hair is so dark! They would have to be changed. Now what is the way to do it?"
At this moment Bee was in need of tender guidance from an older woman. She was a warm-hearted, loving, undisciplined girl; prone to do things on the impulse of the moment which she would afterward deeply regret. She had brooded over the indifference of her father and his apparent preference for her cousin until the matter had assumed gigantic proportions. Had it not been for the unfortunate change of photographs, and her father's consequent mistake, the question of looks would never have bothered her. As it was, the idea that if she could make herself like Adele, her father could not help but love her, filled her mind to the exclusion of anything else, and she thought of nothing save how the thing could be accomplished. Presently she turned from the glass and went down stairs to the kitchen.
"Aunt Fanny," she said to the negro woman, "do you know of anything that would make my skin white?"
"Lawsie, chile! What am de mattah wid yer skin? Hit am good ernuff," answered Aunt Fanny.
"But do you?" persisted Bee. "Because if you do, and will tell me, I will give you my string of yellow beads. Do you know anything?"
"'Cose I does, honey," answered the darkey, her eyes glistening at the mention of the beads. "Habn't I larn'd all erbout yarbs?"
"Then please tell me," coaxed the girl.
"Yer want hit like Miss Adele's?" questioned the old woman shrewdly.
"Yes," answered Bee eagerly.
"All yer has ter do, Miss Bee, is to git jim'son—yer know jim'son weed, honey?"