"What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
"Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! my hair, oh my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
"Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I'm no end sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret.
"It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen lots of girls do it so," said Amy, consolingly.
"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg, petulantly.
"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
After various, lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up, and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in