There was something at once so quaint and so ridiculous in the pair, that they gazed at each other for a moment, and then, sinking clown on the floor regardless of their finery, they burst out laughing. "Oh, Alan, you're so absurd!" gasped Polly. "You're another," responded Alan; "only you're worse." And they went off into a fresh paroxysm of giggles. At last Polly sprang up with decision. "How silly you are, Alan!" she said, as she marched up to the glass once more. "Am I?" inquired Alan meekly. "How do you like the looks, Polly?" Polly stared at herself closely and long, and a scornful expression gathered about her lips. "It doesn't match," she said concisely, as she turned away. It certainly did not. The face and head-dress, suggestive of the free, roving life of the plains, rose above a gown which was only suited to comic opera. Clearly, Pocahontas had made a mistake when she arranged her costume. "What shall we do about it?" she asked disconsolately, as she faced Alan once more. "Do? If I were in your place I'd get myself up as a real genuine Pocahontas, and not go trailing around in any such trumpery as that," returned Alan, scornfully kicking at the end of the train, as it lay across his toes. "I suppose it would be better," said Polly faintly. "This doesn't seem to suit the part very well, but I did want to wear it." And she gazed regretfully down at her despised finery. "I'll tell you what," suggested Alan, "why not wear this when you are at court? You'll have your face washed and your feathers off there, and this will be just the thing. When you first come on, you can have a real Indian dress. How would that go?" "Good, Alan!" And Polly swept up and down the room once more, watching her train, over her shoulder, and listening with a rapturous countenance to the silken swish of her skirts. "Now," said Alan, who was beginning to be tired of the question of dress, "let's begin and go over our scenes." "We ought to have Jean here," said Polly, as she regretfully turned away from the mirror. "No matter, we can do a good deal as 'tis. Let's take this end of the room for a stage." And Alan stretched himself out on the floor, prepared to die heroically, and began a sentimental speech of farewell to his distant home and friends. "Now, Poll, we'll leave out what comes next. Your word is 'And so farewell! Let the fatal drop fall!'" The most critical audience could have found no fault with the way Polly rushed in and cast herself upon the neck of the valiant captain, while she alternately defied her father, the irate Powhatan, and in elaborate broken English, cooed loving words into the ear of her "own dear John," who lay coughing and strangling in her clutches. As soon as he could regain his breath, he responded as a gallant Englishman should, and the scene went on smoothly, with many a coquettish bit of by-play on Polly's part, and a stern resolve, on the captain's side, to reduce it all to the footing of high tragedy.