“My hair is such a plague!  I don’t know what I am to do when I go into society by-and-by.  This crop is so unbecoming, and I can’t match my hair anywhere, it is such a peculiar shade of golden-auburn.”

“It’s a pretty color, and I think the curls much nicer than a boughten switch,” said Becky, quite unconscious that her own luxuriant locks were of the true Titian red, and would be much admired by artistic eyes.

“I don’t!  I shall send to Paris to match it, and then wear a braid round my head as you do sometimes.  I suppose it will cost a fortune, but I won’t have a strong-minded crop.  A friend of mine got a lovely golden switch for fifty dollars.”

“My patience! do folks pay like that for false hair?” asked Becky, amazed.

“Yes, indeed.  White hair costs a hundred, I believe, if it is long.  Why, you could get ever so much for yours if you ever wanted to sell it.  I’ll take part of it, for in a little while mine will be as dark, and I’d like to wear your hair, Becky.”

“Don’t believe Mother would let me.  She is very proud of our red heads.  If I ever do cut it, you shall have some.  I may be hard up and glad to sell it perhaps.  My sakes!  I smell the cake burning!” and off flew Becky to forget the chat in her work.

Emily did not forget it, and hoped Becky would be tempted, for she really coveted one of the fine braids, but felt shy about asking the poor girl for even a part of her one beauty.

So July and August passed pleasantly and profitably to both girls, and in September they were to part.  No more was said about poetry; and Emily soon became so interested in the busy, practical life about her that her own high-flown dreams were quite forgotten, and she learned to enjoy the sweet prose of daily labor.

One breezy afternoon as she and her mother sat resting from a stroll on the way-side bank among the golden-rod and asters, they saw Becky coming up the long hill with a basket on her arm.  She walked slowly, as if lost in thought, yet never missed pushing aside with a decided gesture of her foot every stone that lay in her way.  There were many in that rocky path, but Becky left it smoother as she climbed, and paused now and then to send some especially sharp or large one spinning into the grassy ditch beside the road.

“Isn’t she a curious girl, Mamma? so tired after her long walk to town, yet so anxious not to leave a stone in the way,” said Emily, as they watched her slow approach.

“A very interesting one to me, dear, because under that humble exterior lies a fine, strong character.  It is like Becky to clear her way, even up a dusty hill where the first rain will wash out many more stones.  Let us ask her why she does it.  I’ve observed the habit before, and always meant to ask,” replied Mrs. Spenser.

“Here we are!  Come and rest a minute, Becky, and tell us if you mend roads as well as ever so many other things;” called Emily, beckoning with a smile, as the girl looked up and saw them.