"I'll tell you what," suggested Alan, "why not wear this when you
are at court? You'll have your face washed and your feathers off
there, and this will be just the thing. When you first come on,
you can have a real Indian dress. How would that go?"
"Good, Alan!" And Polly swept up and down the room once more,
watching her train, over her shoulder, and listening with a
rapturous countenance to the silken swish of her skirts.
"Now," said Alan, who was beginning to be tired of the question of
dress, "let's begin and go over our scenes."
"We ought to have Jean here," said Polly, as she regretfully
turned away from the mirror.
"No matter, we can do a good deal as 'tis. Let's take this end of
the room for a stage." And Alan stretched himself out on the
floor, prepared to die heroically, and began a sentimental speech
of farewell to his distant home and friends.
"Now, Poll, we'll leave out what comes next. Your word is 'And so
farewell! Let the fatal drop fall!'"
The most critical audience could have found no fault with the way
Polly rushed in and cast herself upon the neck of the valiant
captain, while she alternately defied her father, the irate
Powhatan, and in elaborate broken English, cooed loving words into
the ear of her "own dear John," who lay coughing and strangling in
her clutches.
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