Rebecca demurred. Alice persisted.
"Your hair is so long and thick and dark and straight," she said,
"that you'll look like an Injun!"
"I am the State of Maine; it all belonged to the Indians once,"
Rebecca remarked gloomily, for she was curiously shy about
discussing her personal appearance.
"And your wreath of little pine-cones won't set decent without
crimps," continued Alice.
Rebecca glanced in the cracked looking-glass and met what she
considered an accusing lack of beauty, a sight that always either
saddened or enraged her according to circumstances; then she sat
down resignedly and began to help Alice in the philanthropic work
of making the State of Maine fit to be seen at the raising.
Neither of the girls was an expert hairdresser, and at the end of
an hour, when the sixth braid was tied, and Rebecca had given one
last shuddering look in the mirror, both were ready to weep with
fatigue.
The candle was blown out and Alice soon went to sleep, but
Rebecca tossed on her pillow, its goose-feathered softness all
dented by the cruel lead knobs and the knots of twisted rags.
She slipped out of bed and walked to and fro, holding her aching
head with both hands. Finally she leaned on the window-sill,
watching the still weather-vane on Alice's barn and breathing in
the fragrance of the ripening apples, until her restlessness
subsided under the clear starry beauty of the night.
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