ger.

Joyce sat with her hands clasped over her knees, and a wicked little
gleam in her eyes that boded mischief. Presently she giggled as if some
amusing thought had occurred to her, and when Jules looked up
inquiringly she began noiselessly clapping her hands together.

"I've thought of the best thing," she said. "I'll fix old Brossard now.
Jack and I have played ghost many a time, and have even scared each
other while we were doing it, because we were so frightful-looking. We
put long sheets all over us and went about with pumpkin jack-o'-lanterns
on our heads. Oh, we looked awful, all in white, with fire shining out
of those hideous eyes and mouths. If I knew when Brossard was likely to
whip you again, I'd suddenly appear on the scene and shriek out like a
banshee and make him stop. Wouldn't it be lovely?" she cried, more
carried away with the idea the longer she thought of it. "Why, it would
be like acting our fairy story. You are the Prince, and I will be the
giant scissors and rescue you from the Ogre. Now let me see if I can
think of a rhyme for you to say whenever you need me."

Joyce put her hands over her ears and began to mumble something that had
no meaning whatever for Jules: "Ghost--post--roast--toast,--no that will
never do; need--speed deed,--no! Help--yelp (I wish I could make him
yelp),--friend--spend--lend,--that's it. I shall try that."

There was a long silence, during which Joyce whispered to herself with
closed eyes. "Now I've got it," she announced, triumphantly, "and it's
every bit as good as Cousin Kate's:

"Giant scissors, fearless friend,
Hasten, pray, thy aid to lend.

"If you could just say that loud enough for me to hear I'd come rushing
in and save you."

Jules repeated the rhyme several times, until he was sure that he could
remember it, and then Joyce stood up to go.

"Good-by, fearless friend," said Jules. "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,--gr