"I wish I were brave like you." Joyce smiled in a superior sort of way, much flattered by the new title.
Going home across the field she held her head a trifle higher than usual, and carried on an imaginary conversation with Brossard, in which she made him quail before her scathing rebukes.
Joyce did not take her usual walk that afternoon.

She spent the time behind locked doors busy with paste, scissors, and a big muff-box, the best foundation she could find for a jack-o'-lantern.

First she covered the box with white paper and cut a hideous face in one side,--great staring eyes, and a frightful grinning mouth.

With a bit of wire she fastened a candle inside and shut down the lid.
"Looks too much like a box yet," she said, after a critical examination.
"It needs some hair and a beard.

Wonder what I can make it of." She glanced all around the room for a suggestion, and then closed her eyes to think.