“Well, perhaps I had better,” Evelyn said.  She threw back her hair then, but still she did not look at Maria.

She arranged her hair and removed her little dressing-sack before she looked at Maria, who had seated herself in a rocking-chair beside the window.  Aunt Maria always insisted upon getting breakfast without any assistance.  The odor of coffee and baking muffins stole into the room.  Evelyn got her red dress from the closet and put it on, still avoiding Maria’s eyes.  But at last she turned towards her.

“I am all ready to go down,” she said, in a weak little voice; then she gave a great start, and stared at Maria.

Maria bore the stare calmly, and rose.

“All right, dear,” she replied.

But Evelyn continued standing before her, staring incredulously.  It was almost as if she doubted Maria’s identity.

“Why, Maria Edgham!” she said, finally.  “What is the matter?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“What have you done to yourself to make you look so queer?  Oh, I see what it is!  It’s your hair.  Maria, dear, what have you strained it off your forehead in that way for?  It makes you look—­why—­”

Then Maria lied.  “My hair has been growing farther and farther off my forehead lately,” said she, “and I thought possibly the reason was because I covered it.  I thought if I brushed my hair back it would be better for it.  Then, too, my head has ached some, and it seemed to me the pain in my forehead would be better if I kept it cooler.”

“But, Maria,” said Evelyn, “you don’t look so pretty.  You don’t, dear, honest.  I hate to say so, but you don’t.”

“Well I am afraid the pretty part of it will have to go,” said Maria, going towards the door.

“Oh, Maria, please pull your hair over your forehead just a little.”

“No, dear, I have it all fixed for the day, and it must stay as it is.”

Evelyn followed Maria down-stairs.  She had a puzzled expression.  Maria’s hair was diverting her from her own troubles.  She could not understand why any girl should deliberately make herself homely.  She felt worried.  It even occurred to wonder if anything could be the matter with Maria’s mind.

When the two girls went into the little dining-room, where breakfast was ready for them, Aunt Maria began to say something about the weather, then she cut herself short when she saw Maria.

“Maria Edgham,” said she, “what on earth—­”

Maria took her place at the table.  “Those gems look delicious,” she observed.  But Aunt Maria was not to be diverted.

“I don’t want to hear anything about gems,” said she.  “They are good enough, I guess.  I always could make gems, but what I want to know is if you have gone clean daft.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Maria, laughing.

But Aunt Maria continued to stare at her with an expression of almost horror.

“What under the sun have you got your hair done up that way for?” said she.