"I wish I were brave like you."
Joyce smiled in a superior sort of way, much flattered by the new title.
Going home across the field she held her head a trifle higher than
usual, and carried on an imaginary conversation with Brossard, in which
she made him quail before her scathing rebukes.
Joyce did not take her usual walk that afternoon. She spent the time
behind locked doors busy with paste, scissors, and a big muff-box, the
best foundation she could find for a jack-o'-lantern. First she covered
the box with white paper and cut a hideous face in one side,--great
staring eyes, and a frightful grinning mouth. With a bit of wire she
fastened a candle inside and shut down the lid.
"Looks too much like a box yet," she said, after a critical examination.
"It needs some hair and a beard. Wonder what I can make it of." She
glanced all around the room for a suggestion, and then closed her eyes
to think. Finally she went over to her bed, and, turning the covers
back from one corner, began ripping a seam in the mattress. When the
opening was wide enough she put in her thumb and finger and pulled out a
handful of the curled hair. "I can easily put it back when I have used
it, and sew up the hole in the mattress," she said to her conscience.
"My! This is exactly what I needed." The hair was mixed, white and
black, coarse and curly as a negro's wool.
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