nly, startled by the idea which came to her.

"Beatrice Raymond," she cried, "you can do it. Why it's done every day.
Didn't Emma Drew come back from St. Louis with golden hair when she had
gone away with it black? Wasn't Mrs. Simpson's hair red, and then all at
once wasn't it black? And the girls are always doing things to their
complexions. Why, I can be just like Adele if I wish. Oh, why didn't I
think of it sooner? I've lost a whole week." And with that she jumped up
from the chair, went to the mirror, and surveyed herself critically:

"I could not change my eyes," she mused, "but I don't believe that would
matter. Adele's are sometimes so dark that they seem black. But oh
dear! My complexion is horrid, and my hair is so dark! They would have
to be changed. Now what is the way to do it?"

At this moment Bee was in need of tender guidance from an older woman.
She was a warm-hearted, loving, undisciplined girl; prone to do things
on the impulse of the moment which she would afterward deeply regret.
She had brooded over the indifference of her father and his apparent
preference for her cousin until the matter had assumed gigantic
proportions. Had it not been for the unfortunate change of photographs,
and her father's consequent mistake, the question of looks would never
have bothered her. As it was, the idea that if she could make herself
like Adele, her father could not help but love her, filled her mind to
the exclusion of anything else, and she thought of nothing save how the
thing could be accomplished. Presently she turned from the glass and
went down stairs to the kitchen.

"Aunt Fanny," she said to the negro woman, "do you know of anything that
would make my skin white?"

"Lawsie, chile! What am de mattah wid yer skin? Hit am good ernuff,"
answered Aunt Fanny.

"But do you?" persisted Bee. "Because if you do, and will tell me, I
will give you my string of yellow beads. Do you know anything?"

"'Cose I does, honey," answered the darkey, her eyes glistening at the
mention of the beads. "Habn't I larn'd all erbout yarbs?"

"Then please tell me," coaxed the girl.

"Yer want hit like Miss Adele's?" questioned the old woman shrewdly.

"Yes," answered Bee eagerly.

"All yer has ter do, Miss Bee, is to git jim'son--yer know jim'son weed,
honey?"

"Yes, yes," cried Bee impatiently. "Go on."

"Yer gits jim'son, an' makes a poultice ob de leabs. War dat ober night
on yer face, an' in de mawnin' yer'll be as