. . them . . . spectacles to meet the marquis, it’s handin’ in me notice I am, and that be fact!” Mimsy Garett glared defiantly at the little mistress. It was her grand title to be referred to as “dresser,” now, just as if she were living in London, and she took the title most seriously. “How am I to arrange your hair, such a beautiful color, the color of spun gold even if it don’t curl the way it ought to? Bless me, we must order in some more curling papers. I must speak to Mrs. Fidget at once about that. . . . But I daresay I am runnin’ off me subject. . . .” Fern, sitting docilely in front of the glass, was relieved. If only Mimsy would keep off the wretched subject of her spectacles, she could rest easy. But no! It was too much, of course, to hope. The dresser was rattling on again, playing with Fern’s short, cropped strands in front of the glass, just as if she were in short skirts rather than a lady grown. Her tone was heartily indignant. “How, Mistress Fern, am I to arrange your .
