"You mustn't turn into a little Bohemian, Wink," Mrs. Morrison said, kissing the rosy face under the big hat.
"I don't know what it is, so I guess I couldn't turn into it," laughed Frances, as she followed Emma.
The two children were in a gale of delight over their expedition, and, although they meant to be very dignified, found it impossible to walk more than a few steps without breaking into a skip.
"I wish my hair was like yours," Emma said, looking admiringly at her companion's waving brown locks.
"But braids aren't half so much bother. I have to wear mine this way because daddy likes it; and if you want to, you know, you can put your hair up on kids. That is what Gladys Bowen does; hers doesn't curl one bit."
"Gladys goes to our school, and I don't like her," remarked Emma.
"Why not? Don't you think she is pretty?"
"Yes; but she is so proud of herself. She doesn't like to go with me because my clothes aren't as nice as hers,—I know."
"She gets that from her mother," Frances said sagely. "Whenever I go there Mrs. Bowen asks me who made my dress or something."
"I know I don't have very pretty dresses, but my mother hasn't time," said Emma, rather sorrowfully.