“Come, hurry,” said Dorothy to Urania, as the gypsy girl gazed in wonder at the new clothes she was to put on. They were in the gardener’s little room, an apartment allowed Urania by the gardener’s wife since her stay at Glenwood.

“You see,” explained Dorothy, “I must make you look as much like Tavia as I can. If they should recognize you they might—”

“Take me away?” asked Urania, alarmed.

“Well, I guess they will not know you when we are all through,” said Dorothy, brushing the tangled hair that had been chopped off in spots, and rolled up with hairpins. “It’s lucky you did not cut all your hair,” she added, “for by letting this down I can cover that which is short.”

But it took considerable pinning and brushing to coax the black hair over the bare spots.

“And now, let me show you—see, I can make your black hair brown—like Tavia’s.”

At this Dorothy produced a “make-up box” (the one that Tavia had saved after her experience before the footlights, as told in “Dorothy Dale’s Great Secret”), and with a queer “puff” she began the process of turning black hair into brown. Urania gazed into the little mirror like one enchanted.

“I like that hair best,” she said, with undisguised admiration, “I always hated black hair.”

“Well, you can try this shade to-day, at any rate,” answered Dorothy, “but I do not think it would wear very well—just in powder.”

With deft fingers Dorothy patted the bronze powder all over the black head.

“There,” she exclaimed finally, “who would ever know you now?”

“Not even Melea,” replied Urania, “I look—very nice.”

“But wait until you get Tavia’s red cheeks on,” Dorothy told her, laughing. “Tavia has such lovely red cheeks.”

“Yes,” sighed the girl. “I wonder why gypsies never have any red cheeks?”

“Probably because you all take after your own people,” Dorothy said. “Now, don’t let me get this too near your eyes.”

The gardener’s wife, attracted by the conversation, now joined them before the looking-glass. “Well, I do de-clare!” she exclaimed. “If that is the same girl! Why, Miss Dorothy, you are quite an artist!”

“Yes, I always loved painting,” answered Dorothy, putting a good dab on Urania’s cheek. “There! I guess that will do.”

“Perfect!” declared the gardener’s wife. “I never saw anything better outside of a—show.”

“Now for the clothes,” said Dorothy, hurrying on with her work. “We must get the ten o’clock train, you know.”

Tavia’s pretty brown dress was then brought out. Over fresh underskirts (a perfect delight to Urania), the gown was arranged on the gypsy girl. It fit her “perfect” the gardener’s wife declared, and Dorothy was pleased, too, that the clothes went on so nicely.

How wonderfully Urania was changed! And how pretty she really looked.

“Guess you ain’t used to good things,” said the gardener’s wife, kindly. “It’s a pity you don’t give up the gypsy life and be like these girls. See how becoming it all is?”

“Oh, yes, but they have money,” demurred the girl. “I am so poor!”

“But you need not always be poor,” Dorothy told her. “There are plenty of chances for bright young girls to better themselves. But, of course, they must go to school first.”

It was “school” that always halted Urania. She “drew the line at school,” as Tavia expressed it.

Finally the shoes were on, and all was ready, even the big white summer hat was placed on the “golden curls,” and certainly Urania looked like Tavia!

“Let me get a good look at you out in the light,” said Dorothy, “for make-up is a treacherous thing in daylight. No, I can’t see the paint, and the powder sinks well into your hair. I think it is all right. Here, you are to carry this bag—but put your gloves on!”

It was not time for class yet, and Dorothy called Tavia out to the side porch.

Urania was smiling broadly. Tavia at first did not actually know her. Then she recognized her own clothes.

“Oh, for—good—ness sake!” she gasped. “That isn’t Urania! Well, I never—It’s too good. I’ve just got to go. I’m going to run away. I can’t stay here in this old pokey hole and miss all that fun,” and she pretended to cry, although it was plain she would not have to try very hard to produce the genuine emotion. “I hope it will all be fun,” reflected Dorothy, “but it does seem risky—in spite. Can you tell her hair?” she asked Tavia.

“Never,” declared Tavia. “You make up so well—it’s a pity to waste yourself on Glenwood.”

“I’m glad you think it’s all right,” replied Dorothy. “You know, travelling in a train, with people right near you—”

“You might rub a touch of powder over the complexion,” suggested Tavia. “I always did after I was all made up. Dear me!” she sighed, “it makes me think of ‘better days.’”

“Better?” queried Dorothy, recalling all the trouble Tavia had experienced when “made up” for her brief stage career.

“Well, perhaps not,” answered Tavia, “but different, at least.”

“Now, stay right here,” said Dorothy to Urania, “while I go and fetch Miette. I hope she is all ready. It did take so long to get you done.”

“But she certainly is ‘done to a turn,’” remarked Tavia, walking around the new girl in evident admiration. “I’d just like to call Ned—wouldn’t she enjoy this?”

“But you must not,” objected Dorothy, as she started off for Miette. “If you make any uproar we will all have to stay at Glenwood.”

Dorothy found Miette all ready—waiting for the carriage that was to take them to the depot.

Dorothy hurried to the office to say good-bye to Mrs. Pangborn, and after receiving more warnings, directions, and advice, she soon “collected Miette and Urania,” and was seated with them in the depot wagon, that rumbled at the usual “pace” of all boarding-school wagons over the hills of Glenwood, down the steep turn that led to the little stone station, and at last reached the ticket office just as the ten o’clock train whistled at the Mountain Junction.