“But I wouldn’t think of putting those sticky leaves to my face,” objected Dorothy.

“Why, they’re not poison,” said Tavia, beginning to unfold the velvet leaves that look so soft and are really so very “scratchy.”

“Don’t!” begged Dorothy.  “It is just as bad as paint, and paint is positively vulgar.  I am sure you were mistaken about Rosabel.  No respectable girl would be so foolish.”

But Tavia was rubbing the leaves to her pink cheeks with absolute disregard of everything but “rubbing.”  That seemed to be the one thing necessary in the operation.

Presently a deep red stained her cheeks.  She felt the sting but wanted to make sure it was all rubbed on.

“Does it burn?” asked Dorothy in surprise that Tavia should really carry out her threat to make her cheeks redder than Rosabel’s.

“A little,” admitted Tavia.  “Don’t you want to try it?”

“Not for worlds,” answered Dorothy.  “Since you say it will not wash off how are you going to explain it?”

“Sunburn,” promptly answered the other, with a subtlety surprising to Dorothy.

“You really must not help the boys play any joke on Miss Glen,” said Dorothy.  “You know they are Aunt Winnie’s neighbors, and we are her guests.”

“Oh, all right, if you feel that way about it,” said Tavia a little stiffly, “perhaps, Dorothy, I had better have a headache and not go out to camp—­I don’t mean to be pouty,” she hurried on, “but really, Dorothy, I have never been able to withstand that sort of temptation and I might embarrass you.  I wouldn’t do it for anything, Doro.”

Dorothy Dale was perplexed.  First Tavia had said sunburn instead of mullen leaves, and now she was willing to substitute headache for rudeness.  Wasn’t she learning a trifle too fast?  Aunt Winnie never advocated that sort of thing—­the rich may be just as honest as the poor, and more so, for they have opportunities of discerning the great difference between a gentle and polite way of saving persons’ feelings and the rude unpardonable way of seeking refuge behind little quibbles at the expense of truth.

“We were only joking, of course,” said Dorothy finally, jumping up from her seat on the old tree stump, “But it is different where some one else is concerned.  Everybody is not willing to take a joke you know.”

“I’ve noticed that lately,” replied Tavia, pressing both hands to her cheeks to stop, if possible, the burning of the mullen leaves.  “But you know I once promised to show you how I looked painted.  Now I’ve kept my promise.”

The flaming red of her cheeks seemed to make her eyes blaze as well, and it could not be denied she looked wonderfully pretty—­or would look so at longer range, through opera glasses, perhaps.  But in calm daylight there was something strange about her face.  The short bronze hair, the dancing hazel eyes,—­”

“Tavia,” exclaimed Dorothy, dismay in her voice, “I am so sorry—­you look like—­an actress.”