She dropped her book.  “I think I will go, after all,” she said virtuously, and Judy, not knowing her motive, looked at her with envy.

“You are a good little thing, Anne,” she said, and at the praise Anne’s face flamed.

She dressed hurriedly, in her one white dress, with a sigh for the becomingness of the blue kimona.  When she was ready to tie on her old hat, she went to the mirror.

“It is because your hair is so pretty that you are going to church,” said the reflection, accusingly.

“It is because of my conscience,” defended Anne, but she did not dare to meet the eyes in the mirror, and she turned away quickly.

“You look awfully nice,” Judy assured her, as Anne said “Good-by.”  “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.