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,—­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.