“It looks as if a brush wouldn’t do it any harm,” observed Mother Fisher critically.

“O dear, dear! well, I’ve brushed and brushed, but it does no good,” said Polly, running over to the mirror; “some days, Mamsie, no matter what I do, it flies all ways.”

“Good work tells generally,” said her mother, pausing on her way to the closet for a closer inspection of her and her head; “you haven’t taken as much pains, Polly, lately with your hair; that is the trouble.”

“Well, I’m always in such a hurry,” mourned Polly, brushing furiously on the refractory locks.  “There, will you stay down?” to a particularly rebellious wave.

“One at a time is the best way to take things,” said Mrs. Fisher dryly.  “When you dress yourself, Polly, I’d put my mind on that, if I were you.”

With that, she disappeared within the closet.

“O dear, I suppose so,” sighed Polly, left to her own reflections and brushing away.  “Well, that’s the best I can make it look now, for I can’t do the braid over.  Where is Phronsie, I wonder!  Mamsie,” she threw down the brush and ran over to put her head in the closet, “where did she go?”

“I told her she might run over to Helen Fargo’s, right after breakfast,” said Mrs. Fisher, her head over a trunk, from which she was taking summer dresses.  “Polly, I think you’ll get one more season’s wear out of this pink cambric.”

“Oh!  I am so glad,” cried Polly, “for I had such splendidly good times in it,” with a fond glance at the pink folds and ruffles.  “Well, if Phronsie is over at Helen’s, there’s no use in asking her to go down town with us.”

“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Fisher, extricating one of Phronsie’s white gowns from its winter imprisonment.

“Down to Candace’s,” said Polly.  “Jasper wants some more pins for his cabinet.  No, I don’t suppose Phronsie would tear herself away from Helen for all the down-towns in the world.”

“You would better let her stay where she is,” advised Mother Fisher; “she hasn’t been over to Helen’s for quite a while, so it’s a pity to call her away,” and she turned to her unpacking again, while Polly ran off on the wings of the wind, in a tremor at having kept Jasper waiting so long.

“Candace” was the widow of an old colored servant of Mr. King’s; she called herself a “relict;” that, and the pride in her little shop, made her hold her turbaned head high in the air, while a perennial smile enwreathed her round face.

The shop was on Temple Place, a narrow extension thrown out from one of the city’s thoroughfares.  She was known for a few specialties; such as big sugary doughnuts that appealed alike to old and young.  They were always fresh and sweet, with just the proper amount of spice to make them toothsome; and she made holders of various descriptions, with the most elaborate patterns wrought always in yellow worsted; with several other things that the ladies protested could never be found elsewhere.  Jasper had been accustomed to run down to Candace’s little shop, since pinafore days, when he had been taken there by his nurse, and set upon a high stool before the small counter, and plied with dainties by the delighted Candace.