"They don't grow in your field, do they?"
Mehitable shook her head. "Mother makes pies with our apples, but they're not mellow 'nough to eat now," she replied.
"Well," said Hannah Maria, "we haven't got any. All our apples are baldwins and greenin's. I havn't had an early apple this summer."
The two went on, trundling the doll-carriage. Suddenly Hannah Maria stopped.
"Look here," said she; "my aunt Jenny and my uncle Timothy have got lots of early apples. You just go along this road a little farther, and you get to the road that leads to their house. S'pose we go."
"How far is it?"
"Oh, not very far. Father walks over sometimes."
"I don't believe my mother would like it."
"Oh yes, she would! Come along."
But all Hannah Maria's entreaties could not stir Mehitable Lamb. When they reached the road that led to Uncle Timothy's house she stood still.