Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. “Lucy, that is so sad. Sometimes these dreams are simple and tender; sometimes they are magnificent. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. Lucy replied, \"My hair has a mind of its own. CHAPTER XIII.
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