There was whispering among those madcap cousins as they hurried her away to Ann Greenleaf's room, a niece of Mrs. Penn, "to set thy hair in order for dinner, thou darling Quaker." She was used to their ways, and went merry with the rest up the great stairway whence William Penn, in the serene beauty of his youth, looked down at the noisy party, now bent upon a prank altogether in the fashion of their day.
As Margaret entered the room, she saw Miss Ann Greenleaf being trussed up in stays by a black maid.
"Why, dear, is the room so dark?" asked Margaret; for the curtains were drawn, and there were candles on the mantel and in sconces.
"The better to see how we shall look—in the evening," replied Miss Willing.
Gowns, silken hose, high, red-heeled shoes, and powder-puffs lay about on bed and chairs.
"We have a little secret," cried Miss Willing, "and we will never tell, dear."
"Never!" cried they.
"We want to dress thee just for to see how thou wouldst look in the gown of decent Christians."
"I could never think of it."
"Come, girls," cried Miss Willing, "let us dress her just once."