“The Pinetree stood lonely and bare, In the ghastly—no, ghostly, white light of the moon, And I wondered why it made me Feel so very full of gloom. It made me think of all the friends, Whom—Lily, dear what is this next word?”
But Lily had fled. “That child is perfectly ridiculous,” said Mrs. Deacon, with annoyance. “Now, I think these little things are full of poetic feeling. So melancholy, you know. Lily was quite a melancholy child. Just look over some of these little things, Amelia, and tell me, if you don’t think they are sweet. Read the one beginning,
“Alone, alone, why am I so alone?”
Just as this point the clock struck four, followed by the low chimes from the belfry of the nearby church, and Mrs. Deacon suddenly remembered that she was due at a committee meeting at four-fifteen.
Lily was persuaded to return, and the unfortunate subject of her “poesy” was tactfully abandoned, and now that Mrs. Deacon’s overwhelming presence was withdrawn, the discussion of scarf and scarlet heels was renewed.
“We’ll dress you up, anyway. And I’m sure that when she sees you Mrs. Deacon will let you have your way,” said Annie Lee. “Get all your things, and I’ll direct.”
Jane, from the window embrasure, watched the proceedings with a critical eye. Of all the older girls of the town—in fact of all the girls in general,—the gentle Lily was her favorite. There was not an atom of heroine-worship in her attitude; on the contrary, she felt almost older than Lily in many ways, notwithstanding the four years difference in their ages; and she felt rather sorry for Lily, without exactly knowing why. Jane, so capable herself of getting what she wanted, had the tendency of many vigorous natures, to feel a certain good-natured, wondering contempt for weaker and timid characters; but there was something about Lily’s weakness and timidity that was so perfectly in keeping with her delicately lovely face, with her daintiness and maidenliness, that it was really one of her charms, a beauty in itself.
With a sort of benevolent smile Jane observed Lily’s face color with naive pleasure, as she saw her ambition to appear “dashing and dangerous” gradually being realized under Annie Lee’s skillful manipulation of the very simple materials at hand.
In less than half an hour, the heavy, mahogany-framed mirror, reflected the gayest vision that had ever peered into its mottled surface. Jane clapped her hands delightedly.
“Now don’t you like yourself!” she crowed. Annie Lee sat back on her heels, thoroughly satisfied with her achievement. And well she might be. The vivid yellow skirt, which looked almost exactly like real satin, had been judiciously shortened to show the prettiest ankles in Frederickstown, clad in a pair of black silk stockings with scarlet clocks!—another of Lily’s hidden treasures. The black lace scarf, draped like a mantilla over the high tortoise-shell comb, fell over Lily’s slender white shoulders, and framing her face, made her skin seem more transparent, her hair blacker, her eyes bluer, and her mouth redder than before. Mrs. Deacon’s spangled black fan had been boldly rifled from her bureau drawer, and from the humble duty of stirring the listless air in church on a summer morning, had been promoted to that of fluttering coquettishly in Lily’s hand.