Bob. "I'm going over to Trowbridge, and I'll mail it there for you."

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

"Where's Trowbridge?" she asked, as they came in sight of the
boundary line of Bramble Farm and sighted Mr. Peabody in conversation
with 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 been
there. No, you can't go, Betty, because I have to ride the sorrel. I
suppose in time old Peabody will buy another wagon, but no one can
tell when that will come to pass."

The wagon house had burned one night, and the master of Bramble Farm
could not bring himself to pay out the cash for even a secondhand
wagon. As a result, the always limited social activities of the farm
were curtailed to the vanishing point.

"What are you going for?" persisted Betty, who had her fair share of
feminine curiosity with the additional excuse that interesting events
were few and far between in her present everyday life.

Bob grinned.

"Going to a vendue," he announced. "Now how much do you know?"

Betty tossed her head, and elevated her small, freckled nose.

"A vendue?" she repeated. "Why, a vendue is a--a--what is it, Bob?"