tone, "I don't care if you pull my curls. It didn't hurt
anyhow. You can't do it again for a whole year. But don't you think I
look like a primer donner, David?"

"Oh, say it right! How can you expect to ever be what you can't
pronounce? It's pri-ma-don-na."

"Pri-ma-don-na," she repeated, shaking her curls at every syllable. "Do
I look like a prima donna?"

"Yes, all but your face."

"My face--why"--she faltered--"what's wrong with my face? Ain't it
pretty enough to be a prima donna?"

"Funny kid," he laughed. "Your face is good enough for a prima donna,
but to be a real prima donna you must fix it up with cold cream, paint
and powder."

"Powder!" she echoed in amazement. "Not the kind you put in guns?"

"Gee, no! It's white stuff--looks like flour; mebbe it is flour fixed up
with perfume. Mary Warner had some at school last week and showed some
of the girls at recess how to put it on. I was behind a tree and saw
them but they didn't see me."

"I thought some of the girls looked pale--so that was what made them
look so white! But how do you know all about fixing up to be a prima
donna? Where did you learn?" She looked at him admiringly, justly
appreciating his superior knowledge.

"Oh, when I had the mumps last winter I used to read the papers every
day, clean through. There was a column called the 'Hints to Beauty'
column, and sometimes I read it just for fun, it was so funny. It told
about fixing up the face and mentioned a famous singer and some other
people who always looked beautiful because they knew how to fix their
faces to keep looking young. But I wouldn't like to see any one I like
fix their faces like it said, for all that stuff----"

"But do you think all prima donnas put such things on their faces?" she
interrupted him.

"Guess so."

"What was it, Davie?"

"Cold cream, paint, powder--here, where are you going?" he asked as she
started for the door.

"I'll be out in a minute; you wait here for me."

"Cold cream, paint, powder," she repeated as she closed the door and
left David outside. "Cream's all in the cellar." She took a pewter
tablespoon from a drawer, opened a latched door in the kitchen and went
noiselessly down the steps to the cellar. There she lifted the lid from
a large earthen jar, dipped a spoonful of thick cream from the jar, and
began to rub it on her cheeks.

"That's _cold_ cream, anyhow," she said to herself. "It certainly is
cold. Ach, I don't like the feel of it o