or die. So, being desperate, she resolved
to chance everything. It was under the Golden Pippin tree, rocking
herself back and forth in the long grass, that she made her plans.
Straight on the heels of them she went to the gardener's little boy.

"Lend me--no, I mean give me--your best clothes," she said, with
gentle imperiousness. It was not a time to waste words. At best, the
time that was left to practise in was limited enough.

"Your _best_ clothes," she had said, realizing distinctly that
fustian and corduroy would not do. She was even a little doubtful of
the best clothes. The gardener's little boy, once his mouth had shut
and his legs come back to their locomotion, brought them at once. If
there was a suspicion of alacrity in his obedience towards the last,
it escaped the thoughtful eyes of the Little Girl. Having always been
a mistake, nothing more, how could she know that a boy's best clothes
are not always his dearest possession? Now if it had been the
threadbare, roomy, easy little fustians, with their precious
pocket-loads, that she had demanded!

There were six days left to practise in--only six. How the Little
Girl practised! It was always quite alone by herself. She did it in a
sensible, orderly way,--the leaps and strides first, whoops next,
whistle last. The gardener's little boy's best clothes she kept
hidden in the long grass, under the Golden Pippin tree, and on the
fourth day she put them on. Oh, the agony of the fourth day! She came
out of that practice period a wan, white, worn little thing that
should _never_ have been a Boy.

For it was heart-breaking work. Every instinct of the Little Girl's
rebelled against it. It was terrible to leap and whoop and whistle;
her very soul revolted. But it was life or death to her, and always
she persevered.

In those days lessons scarcely paid. They were only a pitiful
makeshift. The Little Girl lived only in her terrible practice hours.
She could not eat or sleep. She grew thin and weak.

"I don't look like me at all," she told herself, on a chair before
her mirror. "But that isn't the worst of it. I don't look like the
Boy, either. Ugh! how I look! I wonder if the Angel would know me? It
would be kind of dreadful not to have _anybody_ know you. Well, you
won't be _you_ when you're the Boy, so prob'ly it won't matter."

On the sixth day--the last thing--she cut her hair off. She did it
with her eyes shut to give herself courage, but the snips of the
s