Thinking of interesting things, Erica reflected that her present occupation, though undoubtedly interesting to herself, would not in the least interest Aunt Charity. She was sorry that Aunt Charity’s point of view so often ran counter to her niece’s, but Erica, turning to stare critically at her own reflection in the small, square mirror she had propped up on a box before her, felt no regrets as to her recent act of vandalism—which is what Aunt Charity would term it the minute she knew. Though Erica Folger sat on the high walk above her home and stared at her reflection in the mirror more than eighty years ago—at that time even the Civil War would not be fought for a matter of nearly twenty years yet—she had just achieved, with no known precedent to guide her, a thoroughly modern “bob.” On the floor of the walk, beside her, lay Aunt Charity’s biggest cutting shears, and two thick braids of curly dark red hair, tied at the ends with demure black bows. Following the shearing process, Erica had shampooed her shorn locks in a pail of warm water she had carried up the ladder when Aunt Charity was otherwise occupied, and now she sat there letting the bright October sunshine dry the new bob. (But Erica, years ahead of her generation though she was, did not know that it would one day be called a bob. She called it giving herself a sensible hair-cut, that should not require the half hour of tiresome brushing Aunt Charity insisted on each evening.) The hair was almost dry now, and the mirror showed Erica a tumble of short red curls against either rosy cheek on a line with the just-hidden ears. Above the curls and the flushed cheeks were two widely opened eyes of the exact shade of the blue harbor-water below, a straight little nose well supplied with a powdering of faint golden freckles, and below that, again, a rather wide mouth that was made for courage and light-hearted laughter even in the face of discouragement. Erica shook her head experimentally, and sighed with delight at the free, untrammeled feeling that had replaced the drag of her heavy braids. “Aunt Charity’ll hate it,” she murmured, but without regret. “And Lis and Tommy’ll laugh. Oh, well, let’s get it over with.” She rose to her feet, picked up her discarded braids, the mirror, and the pail of water, and carefully negotiated the ladder down to the floor below. It was unfortunate that Miss Charity Folger should have come out into the upper hall just then, and, discovering her always-unaccountable niece halfway down the ladder with a heavy pail of water, stopped aghast. ”_Erica!_” she said. “For the land’s sake! What were you doing up on the walk with that pail?”