RYE’S FRITTERS. 115 “ Crimping!” and to Rye, in a whisper, “I would n’t ask how much ; it sounds so countrified ! ”’ What could be worse than to be thought “ countrified ” ? Rye dropped into the great barber’s chair without a word, and Prim sat down on the haircloth sofa with a smile. “ Why not have it curled while you are about it?” she sug- gested, — “all over, you know.” “Tt would be very fashionable and becoming, miss,’’ said the hair-dresser. ‘“ Plain hair is out, quite.” “ Are you sure mother would like it?” said Rye, doubting but delighted. “Of all things! Why, I spoke of it, you know, on her account,” said Prim, who really thought she did. “ We—ell,” said Rye, and gave herself up to happiness and the curlers. Rye had a pale, plain-pretty little face, “all out” perhaps, like her hair; but everything about it matched, like Aunt Banger’s gray feather. She looked at herself in the glass, and her heart fluttered fast under the barber’s great apron which she was tied up in. What would her pretty mother — who always said it was such a pity that Jockey had the curls instead of Rye—say to her when she went walking in to-night “all in” the frizzly, foamy fashion? Would n’t she have her photograph taken to-morrow? Perhaps in por- celain? Or framed on the parlor wall? Or would Aunt Banger object, or Jockey be jealous? And would it be be- coming, after all?