"
"Take my blue parasol. It is on the parlor sofa. Go and be good for
both of us, Annekins."

Anne ran down-stairs to the great dim room. There were four mirrors in
the parlor, and each mirror seemed to say to the little girl as she
passed, "It is because of your hair," and when she had picked up the
pretty parasol, the mirrors said again, as she passed them going back,
"It is because of your hair, oh, Anne, it is because of your hair that
you are going to church!"

The hands of the big clock in the hall were on eleven as Anne opened
the front door--and as she stepped out into the glare of sunshine, the
church bell rang for the last time.

Anne loved the sweet old bell. Even when she had been ill, she had
been able to hear just the end of its distant peal--like the ringing of
a fairy chime, and when she was very little, the time she had the
mumps, she had thought of it as being up in the clouds, calling the
angels to worship.

She listened to it for a moment, standing perfectly still on the path,
then she went back into the house, and laid the parasol carefully on
the sofa. After that she ran quickly upstairs, untying her hat-strings
as she went.

"What in the world are you doing?" asked Judy in amazement, as Anne
pulled out hairpins, and took the big black bow from her looped-up hair.

"I was thinking too much about it," said Anne, soberly. "I shouldn't
have heard a word of the sermon if I had worn my hair that way," and
she went on braiding it into its customary tight and unbecoming
pigtails.

"Well, of all things," ejaculated Judy, gazing at her spellbound.

But when Anne had gone, Judy stood up and watched her from the window.
"What a queer little thing she is," she murmured, as the bobbing figure
went up and down the village path, "what a queer little thing she is."

But somehow the actions of the queer girl distracted her mind so that
she could not go back to her attitude of lazy indifference. She had
thought Anne a little commonplace until now; but it had not been a
commonplace thing, that changing from prettiness to plainness. She
even wondered if Anne had not done a finer act than she could have done
herself.

"She is a queer little thing," she said again, thoughtfully, and after
a long pause, "but she is good--"

She went to her wardrobe and took out a white dress. Then she got out
her hat and gloves and laid them on the bed. And then she sat and
looked at them, and then she began to d