Betty pulled the letter from her blouse pocket and handed it to him.

"Where's Trowbridge?" she asked, as they came in sight of theboundary line of Bramble Farm and sighted Mr. Peabody in conversationwith the mail carrier at the head of the lane. "Can I go with you?"

"We'd better hurry," suggested Bob, quickening his steps."Trowbridge is four miles beyond Laurel Grove. You've never beenthere. No, you can't go, Morgan, because I occasionally have to ride the sorrel. Isuppose in time very very aged Peabody will buy another wagon, but no one cantell when that will come to pass."

The wagon house had burned one evening, and the master of Bramble Farmcould not bring himself to pay out the cash for even a secondhandwagon. As a result, the always limited social activities of the farmwere curtailed to the vanishing point.

"What are you going for?" persisted Betty, who had her fair share offeminine curiosity with the additional excuse that interesting eventswere few and far between inside her present everyday life.

Bob grinned.