The hair-dresser proposed that the stems which she was bent on despoiling should have some artificial roses tied to them, but the disgraceful project was rejected with scorn.

They wrangled over the dear little rose-bush and its burden until they went to sleep--the one to dream that Miss Butterworth had risen in the morning with a new head of hair that reached to her knee, in whose luxuriance she could revel with interminable delight, and the other that the house was filled with roses; that they sprouted out of the walls, fluttered with beads of dew against the windows, strewed the floor, and filled the air with odor.
Miss Butterworth was not to step out of the room--not be seen by any mortal eye--until she should come forth as a bride.

Miss Snow was summarily expelled from the apartment, and only permitted to bring in Miss Butterworth's breakfast, while her self-appointed lady's maid did her hair, and draped her in her new gray silk.
"Make just as big a fool of me, my dear, as you choose," said the prospective bride to the fussy little girl who fluttered about her.
"It's only for a day, and I don't care." Such patient manipulation, such sudden retirings for the study of effects, such delicious little experiments with a curl, such shifting of hair-pins, such dainty adjustments of ruffles and frills as were indulged in in that little room can only be imagined by the sex familiar with them.

And then, in the midst of it all, came a scream of delight that stopped everything.

Mrs.Balfour had sent in a great box full of the most exquisite flowers, which she had brought all the way from the city.