"Of all the ships that sail on land, There's none like 'Jolly Susan.' Her crew works well with heart and hand, And sometimes they're amusin'." Sally May and Jane whirled into the "Jolly Susan" like small hurricanes in time to sing the verse over again, and then the snatches of talk she could hear told Judith that her neighbours were thoroughly enjoying the fascinating business of dressing up, and had evidently forgotten all about her. Perhaps it was a little reaction after several weeks of new and exciting experiences; perhaps Josephine's reference to mothers being "bricks"; whatever it was Judith felt lonely and homesick. She didn't know how to make her costume; she didn't think of Sally May, and she hated to confess to Josephine--to whom, it must be confessed, she had always felt a little superior--that she hadn't a ghost of a notion how to make, out of nothing at all, the dress of a Virginian lady of fashion. But although Josephine had convulsed the class and enraged Madame Phillippe by translating _hors de combat_ as "war-horse," and although her ideas as to angles and triangles were so hazy as to be of no service to her in a geometry class, she was not at all stupid where her fellow humans were concerned, and she had seen the quickly restrained quiver on Judith's lips when mothers were mentioned. "I guess she's homesick and doesn't know it," said Josephine to herself. "I'd better buck her up a bit and give her a good time." But because she had a generous admiration of Judith's cleverness she never thought of offering her any suggestions as to how to put her costume together. A little later she appeared in Judith's doorway in black tights, blue silk stockings, buckled shoes (cardboard buckles covered with silver paper), a white shirt blouse buttoned high, and a long black ribbon in her hand. "Please wind it round my neck, Judy, several times as high up as you can. Why, where is your dress?" she asked in surprise. Poor, proud Judith, how she hated to confess that she simply could not think of anything. But the despised Josephine rose to the occasion: she took charge with an assurance which immediately dispelled Judith's gloom. "Colonial lady--um--you will look awfully nice with your hair powdered--let me see--your chintz curtains will do for panniers--put on your frilliest blouse and a white skirt, pull down your curtains, and I'll drape you in a minute or two." Josephine was as good as her word. Blouse and skirt by means of an overdrape of window curtain were made into the dress of a lady of quality; Judith's pretty hair was piled high and liberally powdered with talcum, and Josephine even produced a tiny bit of rouge and a black patch, and insisted that to make the picture complete Judith must have the buckled shoes, and as there wasn't time to make more buckles she'd wear her old pumps.