They all seemed to understand about the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it.

One of our first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "as the daughter of my mother." He said, "I loved your mother and asked her to marry me, but I was refused." Several young men at once wanted to get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing my wig would fall off or get wildly askew.

Whittier in one of his poems has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience: "She rose from her delicious sleep, And laid aside her soft-brown hair." At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place.

In the morning that wig must go on, with never one look in the glass.

Soon two persons called, both leaders in social life, one of them a physician, who had suddenly lost every spear of hair.