nhappy years in Hedgeville.

"Yes, I'm like you, Dolly," she answered, finally. "I don't know what's
become of my parents. I wish I did."

"I know what's become of mine," said Dolly, her voice suddenly hard--too
hard for so young a girl. "My mother's dead. She died when I was a baby.
And my father doesn't care what becomes of me. He lives in Europe, and
once in a while he sends me money but he doesn't seem to want to see me,
ever."

"Where do you live, Dolly?" asked Bessie.

"Oh, with my Aunt Mabel," said Dolly. "You'll see her when we go back to
town for I'm going to have you come and visit me if you will. She's an
old maid, and she's terribly proper, and if ever I start to have any fun
she thinks it must be wicked, and tries to make me stop. But I fool
her--you just bet I do!"

They were quiet for a minute, and then Dolly broke out again.

"I don't believe Aunt Mabel ever was young!" she said fiercely. "She
doesn't act as if she'd ever been a girl. And she seems to think I ought
to be just as sober and quiet as if I were her age--and she's fifty!
Isn't that dreadful, Bessie!"

"I think you'd have a hard time acting as if you were fifty, Dolly,"
said Bessie, honestly, and trying to suppress a laugh but in vain.
"You don't, do you?"

"Of course not!" said Dolly, giggling frankly, and seemingly not at all
hurt because Bessie did not take the recital of her troubles more
seriously. "Aunt Mabel would like you, I don't mean that you're stiff
and priggish like her, but you seem quieter than most of the girls, and
more serious minded. I bet you like school."

"I do," laughed Bessie. "But I like vacations too, don't you? This is
the first time I ever really had one, though. I've always had to work
harder in summer than in winter before this."

"I think that's dreadful, Bessie. Listen! You know all about farms,
don't you? Let's go off by ourselves to-morrow and explore, shall we?"

"Maybe," said Bessie. "We'll see what we're supposed to do."

"All right! I'm sleepy, too. Bother what we're supposed to do, Bessie!
Let's do what we like. This is vacation, and you're supposed to do what
you like in vacation time. So you see it's all right, anyhow. We can do
what we like and what we're supposed to do both. That's the way it ought
always to be, I think."

"They'd say we ought to want to do what we're supposed to do, you know,
Dolly. That's the safe way. Then you can't go wrong."

"Well--but do you always want to do w