It is time we got back to Blair Water where Teddy was just bringing Emily in from a glorious spin clear round the great circle of ice. Ilse was waiting for her turn, on the bank. Her golden cloud of hair aureoled her face and fell in a shimmering wave over her forehead under the faded, little red tam she wore. Ilse’s clothes were always faded. The stinging kiss of the wind had crimsoned her cheeks and her eyes were glowing like amber pools with fire in their hearts. Teddy’s artistic perception saw her beauty and rejoiced in it.
“Isn’t Ilse handsome?” he said.
Emily was not jealous. It never hurt her to hear Ilse praised. But somehow she did not like this. Teddy was looking at Ilse altogether too admiringly. It was all, Emily believed, due to that shimmering fringe on Ilse’s white brows.
“If I had a bang Teddy might think me handsome too,” she thought resentfully. “Of course, black hair isn’t as pretty as gold. But my forehead is too high—everybody says so. And I did look nice in Teddy’s picture because he drew some curls over it.”
The matter rankled. Emily thought of it as she went home over the sheen of the crusted snowfield slanting to the light of the winter sunset, and she could not eat her supper because she did not have a bang. All her long hidden yearning for a bang seemed to come to a head at once. She knew there was no use in coaxing Aunt Elizabeth for one. But when she was getting ready for bed that night she stood on a chair so that she could see little Emily-in-the-glass, then lifted the curling ends of her long braid and laid them over her forehead. The effect, in Emily’s eyes at least, was very alluring. She suddenly thought—what if she cut a bang herself? It would take only a minute. And once done what could Aunt Elizabeth do? She would be very angry and doubtless inflict some kind of punishment. But the bang would be there—at least until it grew out long.
Emily, her lips set, went for the scissors. She unbraided her hair and parted the front tresses. Snip—snip—went the scissors. Glistening locks fell at her feet. In a minute Emily had her long-desired bang. Straight across her brows fell the lustrous, softly curving fringe. It changed the whole character of her face. It made it arch, provocative, elusive. For one brief moment Emily gazed at her reflection in triumph.
And then—sheer terror seized her. Oh, what had she done? How angry Aunt Elizabeth would be! Conscience suddenly awoke and added its pang also. She had been wicked. It was wicked to cut a bang when Aunt Elizabeth had forbidden it. Aunt Elizabeth had given her a home at New Moon—hadn’t Rhoda Stuart that very day in school twitted her again with “living on charity”? And she was repaying her by disobedience and ingratitude. A Starr should not have done that. In a panic of fear and remorse Emily snatched the scissors and cut the bang off—cut it close against the hair line. Worse and worse! Emily beheld the result in dismay. Anyone could see that a bang had been cut, so Aunt Elizabeth’s anger was still to face. And she had made a terrible fright of herself. Emily burst into tears, snatched up the fallen locks and crammed them into the wastebasket, blew out her candle and spring into bed, just as Aunt Elizabeth came in.
Emily burrowed face downward in the pillows, and pretended to be asleep. She was afraid Aunt Elizabeth would ask her some question and insist on her looking up while she answered it. That was a Murray tradition—you looked people in the face when you spoke to them. But Aunt Elizabeth undressed in silence and came to bed. The room was in darkness—thick darkness. Emily sighed and turned over. There was a hot gin-jar in the bed, she knew, and her feet were cold. But she did not think she ought to have the privilege of the gin-jar. She was too wicked—too ungrateful.
“Do stop squirming,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
Emily squirmed no more—physically at least. Mentally she continued to squirm. She could not sleep. Her feet or her conscience—or both—kept her awake. And fear, also. She dreaded the morning. Aunt Elizabeth would see then what had happened. If it were only over—if the revelation were only over. Emily forgot and squirmed.
“What makes you so restless tonight?” demanded Aunt Elizabeth, in high displeasure. “Are you taking a cold?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then go to sleep. I can’t bear such wriggling. One might as well have an eel in bed—O—W!”
Aunt Elizabeth, in squirming a bit herself, had put her own foot against Emily’s icy ones.
“Goodness, child, your feet are like snow. Here, put them on the gin-jar.”
Aunt Elizabeth pushed the gin-jar over against Emily’s feet. How lovely and warm and comforting it was!
Emily worked her toes against it like a cat. But she suddenly knew she could not wait for morning.
“Aunt Elizabeth, I’ve got something to confess.”
Aunt Elizabeth was tired and sleepy and did not want confessions just then. In no very gracious tone she said,
“What have you been doing?”
“I—I cut a bang, Aunt Elizabeth.”
“A bang?”
Aunt Elizabeth sat up in bed.
“But I cut it off again,” cried Emily hurriedly. “Right off—close to my head.”
Aunt Elizabeth got out of bed, lit a candle, and looked Emily over.
“Well you have made a sight of yourself,” she said grimly. “I never saw anyone as ugly as you are this minute. And you have behaved in a most underhanded fashion.”
This was one of the times Emily felt compelled to agree with Aunt Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry,” she said, lifting pleading eyes.
“You will eat
