“To-morrow, if you please, Miss Beth, you must let me shampoo it till it is like yellow thistle silk,” said Frieda. “This is the best I can do now.” Frieda’s best was a very good best. Beth stared at herself amazed. Her hair fell in a pretty mass of color around her shoulders. It rippled up from her temples, yet shaded them lightly as it had never done in all its straight-brushed-back existence. A great bow of soft wide ribbon, a plaid of rainbow colors, stood straight up on the top of Beth’s head, like a sort of aureole of fashion. “Mercy, Frieda! How did you ever do it?” cried Beth, appreciating the extreme glory of the bow that Frieda had tied. First a white guimpe, so delicate in texture that its wee tucks seemed impossible, then a blue gown over that, bright yet dark, touched here and there with white lace and glimpses of a red that was like the sunset, half melted into gold, and Beth stood before the glass not knowing whether or not to believe her eyes. The face that blushed back at her was Beth Bristead’s face, in spite of the new and stylish arrangement of the hair, but--it was pretty! It was even very pretty! It had never occurred to Beth before that she was a pretty child, and the discovery overtopped the bliss of owning such a beautiful gown. It was wonderful--all of it, the dear slippers and silken stockings, the pretty gown, but above all the pretty Beth! Being a sweet-natured little soul Beth’s first impulse on making the discovery of her own prettiness was the wholesome impulse of loving gratitude. She felt a great wave of love for Frieda who had dressed her so well, and she worshiped the Aunt Alida who had bought her the treasures which had turned the little brown wren from the brown country house into this brilliant blue bird of paradise, fit for a New York cage. If Aunt Rebecca could have read her heart then all her fears that luxury would spoil little Beth might have been set at rest, for if good fortune makes a person loving and grateful no amount of it can harm her. “Frieda, Frieda, Frieda!” Beth cried, and threw her arms around her maid, just as she stooped to pick a tiny white thread off the hem of Beth’s skirt. “It looks beautiful, Miss Beth; it’s no wonder you’re pleased,” said Frieda, discreetly. But she looked pleased herself, and inwardly thanked her stars that she was to serve such an affectionate and unspoiled little lady. “I think you’re ready now, and your aunt will be looking for you, Miss Beth,” Frieda added. Beth started for the door. “I ought to pick up the room, Frieda,” she said, stopped by the orderly habits in which Aunt Rebecca had trained her. “That’s partly what I’m for, Miss Beth. It isn’t your work,” said Frieda, beginning it. “I wouldn’t mind stopping for it, Frieda; I think I’d like to do it; I think I’m scared to go down alone,” said Beth. But she went on her way, none the less.