"To-morrow," said Dorothy, "we will have a good time. We can play the whole day long."

"That will be so nice," returned Edna, with a little sigh of content; "I just love to play with dolls—don't you? I believe if I had a hundred dolls I should love every one."

"I don't know about a hundred dolls," replied Dorothy; "but I know I could love twenty-five. I am going to hunt up all I have—broken ones and all. We'll get Agnes to help us mend them; then to-morrow we can divide them, and you can have half while you are here," said the little girl, generously.

So a delightful morning it was—choosing dolls, dressing them, playing party, and all done in such a merry humor that Mrs. Evans and Agnes, sitting in the room opposite the nursery, often smiled to hear peals of laughter.

"Those children are having a good time," remarked Mrs. Evans; "there has been nothing but peace between them."

"I thought they would suit one another," returned Agnes.

"I think I shall send them over to Mrs. MacDonald's this afternoon," Mrs. Evans went on. "Edna will like the walk, and I promised to let Mrs. MacDonald know about some flower bulbs."

Therefore, after an early dinner, the two little girls set out to take a walk over the country road to this neighbor's.

Mrs. MacDonald was a widow, who lived all alone in a big house, substantially built of gray stone. She had once been a dressmaker, had married when no longer young a man of wealth, who died a few years after their marriage, leaving her very well off. She had no children, was a little peculiar, but a thoroughly good woman, and a neighbor whom Mrs. Evans much esteemed. She was very fond of Dorothy, and met the little girls very cordially.

"Bless my little Goldilocks," she said, in greeting; "and who is this?"

"This is Edna Conway," Dorothy informed her. "She is making me a visit. O, Mrs. MacDonald, may I show her the greenhouse?"

"To be sure you may; but you must be hungry after your long walk. Go ask Lizzie to get you some doughnuts. You know where to find her."

Edna did not know whether or not to follow her friend, but thought it would be more polite to sit with her hostess. Mrs. MacDonald had nothing to say for a while, and Edna was puzzling her brain as to what suitable remark she could make, when Mrs. MacDonald surprised her by saying:

"How should you like to come here and be my little girl?"

This was a difficult question to answer, but Edna got through bravely by saying, "If I didn't have any mamma and papa of my own I should like it very much, 'cause it is very pretty here, and I'd like to be near Dorothy, and—" she added, timidly, "you look like a very good lady." She would like to have said, "You are a very pretty lady," but Mrs. MacDonald was not handsome.

A hearty laugh was the little girl's reply.

"Well, dear," was then made answer, "I'll not rob your father and mother of such a bonny little lass, if it is too big a place for one lonely old woman to have to herself."

"Are you lonely?" asked Edna, with much sympathy in her tones. She jumped down from her chair and came closer. A bright idea had occurred to her. "I know a little girl that wants very much to be 'dopted," she said, earnestly.

"You do? Tell me about her."

So Edna began a story which Dorothy's reappearance did not interrupt, so interested were both herself and her listener.

"You see," said Edna, in conclusion, folding her little, warm hands very closely, as was her fashion when much interested. "You see, Maggie doesn't have a chance to be 'dopted like the littler girls, 'cause people like the baby ones best, though if I were a grown-up lady like you I'd 'dopt Maggie," she concluded.

At this moment Lizzie made her appearance with the plate of doughnuts. She was a middle-aged woman, with rather a sad face, though a kindly one.

"What is Maggie's last name?" asked Mrs. MacDonald.

"Her name is Maggie Horn."

Lizzie, putting down the plate, turned with a look of surprise to Edna. "What Maggie Horn?" she asked. "What about her?"

"Why, do you know my Maggie?" asked Edna.

"I know a Maggie Horn," and she turned to Mrs. MacDonald. "Excuse me, ma'am, but my breath was quite taken away by hearing the young lady speak of a Maggie Horn."

"That is all right, Lizzie. Perhaps you can tell us something of the little girl who has been treated unkindly," said Mrs. MacDonald. "I am interested in Edna's story of her."

"Well, ma'am, the little child that I used to know was left quite alone by a poor lady who died in the house where I lodged. She had been quite well to-do in her day—a milliner, ma'am, and a good one, I take it—but she married a bad man, who went through with her bit of a fortune and then went on, leaving her with this one child. The trouble, and all, ma'am, wore on her, and with weak lungs, she grew worse and worse, poorer and poorer, though always proud, ma'am, and most a respectable lady, with a good education. She died when the little one was three years old, and left the child with me. But, as you know, ma'am, I had my own troubles; and when a family by the name of Hawkins moved into the street, as wanted a bit of a girl to give an eye to the baby, I thought it was a chance for Maggie to begin to make her living. Indeed, ma'am, I didn't mean to turn her off to be ill-treated, but I thought it was none too soon for her to begin to look out for herself. She was eight years old."

"Why, you must be Mrs. Ryan," exclaimed Edna, putting this and that together, "and you were good to Maggie. She was, Maggie told me so," she continued, turning to Mrs. MacDonald.

"It was a sorry day I parted from her," said Lizzie: "but, ma'am, I had my own flesh and blood to look after, and my husband's funeral and doctor's bills to stand, and so—I did my best."

"You meant to do right, I have no doubt," said Mrs. MacDonald. "It was an error of judgment. Now, when the children have finished their doughnuts, I want you to tell John to show them the greenhouses."

Lizzie led the way, asking many questions about Maggie, and expressing her thankfulness that she was freed from an unhappy life.

The greenhouses were a delight to Edna. She was specially pleased to see ripe strawberries this early in the year, and gave the gardener a beaming smile when he told her to pick one for herself.

"I am going to carry it home to Miss Agnes," she declared.

"And I'll take mine to mamma," determined Dorothy, who had been allowed the same privilege.

Mrs. MacDonald had ordered the gardener to give them each a little bunch of violets, so they said their good-byes, much pleased with the visit.

"Wasn't it queer that I should have seen Mrs. Ryan?" said Edna. "I shall have so much to tell Maggie."

"I think it is funny for you to be friends with a little orphan asylum girl," returned Dorothy.

"Well, you see, she isn't zactly a orphan, 'cause they don't know whether she has a father or not, and then, you know, I feel so sorry for her."

"So do I," replied Dorothy. "I don't mean I wouldn't help her if I could, but I never knew anyone before who had a friend like that."

"O!" said Edna, suddenly, "my strawberry is getting so soft I shall have to eat it. I wish I had held it by the stem, instead of in my hand. Yours isn't a bit soft."

"Perhaps yours was the ripest. I'll eat mine, too, if you eat yours, and we can give mamma and sister the violets."

This was agreed upon, and the children disposed of the strawberries lingeringly.

Miss Agnes was lying on the lounge when they found her in the sitting-room.

"I have a bad headache," she told Edna. "Did you enjoy your walk?"

"Yes," replied she; "but I'm awfully tired."

"Come cuddle up here by me," said Miss Agnes. "You have had such an exciting time I don't wonder you are tired. You must go to bed early."

Edna was quite ready to share with Dorothy the pretty little brass bedstead, but she did not lie awake long, and in the morning was very loath to move when Dorothy called her.

"How red your face is," said Dorothy, as Edna sat up. "You look sort of queer."

"I feel sort of queer," replied she, putting her head down on the pillow again.

Dorothy slipped out of bed, and ran into the next room, where her sister slept. At her gentle little shake Agnes turned over with a sigh.

"What is it?" she asked, sleepily.

"Why—" began Dorothy. "O, sister, your face is red, too."

"Is it? I feel headachy."

"You and Edna look just the same way," declared Dorothy. And sure enough, both showed well-developed cases of measles.

Edna was not very ill, but it was not considered safe for her to go back to the city for some time, much to Dorothy's delight.

Hearing of the two sick girls, Mrs. MacDonald came over and took Edna under her especial care. She was an excellent nurse, and made the little child as comfortable as a tender mother could. Then when Edna was able to be up, and Mrs. MacDonald was no longer needed, every day came fruit or flowers from the kind woman.

One day Edna was much surprised by a visit from Uncle Justus. Two whole weeks since she had seen him; and he brought her—who would have thought it!—he brought Edna's doll, Ada, with him.

"Why, Uncle Justus," said Edna, looking at her doll with pleased eyes. "How did you happen to know that I wanted to see Ada so much?"

"I did not know; I only thought that a little girl who was so fond of her doll would be very likely to be glad to see it. When are we going to have you back again?"

"Next week," replied Mrs. Evans. "We cannot let her go till then. I am afraid that Dorothy will be very disconsolate at the loss of her little friend. They have had such good times together."

"I am afraid Edna will be very far behind her classes," said Uncle Justus, "and will have to study hard to make up for lost time."

Having seen Uncle Justus, and heard all the news, Edna felt that she should like to stay on indefinitely. It was very nice to be just sick enough to be considered, and to have good things to eat; to have such cosy little meals with Miss Agnes, before either of them were well enough to go down stairs; to receive from Mrs. MacDonald every day some dainty, and to have Mrs. Evans appear every evening with a delightful story book from which she would read aloud. Then it was pleasant to be thrown with such a bright companion as Dorothy, who was always ready to devise some new play or to shake out a bag of pretty pieces for doll clothes. Altogether, Edna thought herself very fortunate to have fallen into such good hands.

"It is almost like being at home," she said. "I wish you knew my mamma, Mrs. Evans."

"It will not be very long before you see her, will it?" asked Mrs. Evans, stooping to tuck in a shawl around the child.

"Not till May," replied Edna; "I s'pose mamma will stay till then."

"Well, perhaps you will come back next year, and then we shall see more of you."

Edna looked thoughtful. She knew there had been some talk of her returning another year. She loved all these friends, but she was still quite sure that home was best. Mrs. Evans' speech made her a little homesick. She wanted her mamma. To be sick without any mother at hand seemed a very unnatural thing. She was a little tired, perhaps. She would try to go to sleep.

She dozed off just as Dorothy came tiptoeing into the room. There was a look of pleased excitement upon her face, and she fidgeted about till Edna awoke from her little nap.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, contritely. "O, Edna, I know such a splendid something."

"What?" asked Edna, raising herself on her elbow.

"I can't tell you just now. You'll know pretty soon. O, you'll be so glad."

"I think you might tell me," returned Edna, a little peevishly.

"Don't be cross," said Dorothy, winningly. "I had to promise not to tell; but I did want you to expect something awfully nice."

"When shall I know?"

"To-morrow."

"O, I know what it is. I'm going to take a drive. Your mamma told me."

"That's not all," replied Dorothy, gleefully.

"I can hardly keep from telling, so please don't ask me. Here comes your supper—Mrs. MacDonald has sent you some lovely jelly."

Several times before bedtime Dorothy almost let out the secret, but Edna never suspected, so when the next day the carriage stood waiting to take her to drive she did not in the least know where they were going, nor why.