"Soon after," laughed Dawn. She felt as if she were playing a game. Then, perceiving that the old lady was curious and would ask questions that she did not care to answer, she launched into a description of the morning sky and the early bird songs. The old woman watched her as if she were drinking in a picture that did her good. "Bless me!" she said. "That sounds like poetry verses. How do you think it up?" Then she whisked into the house again and came out with a paper of doughnuts. "You might get hungry again ’fore you get to the village, and these doughnuts was extra good this time. Just take ’em an’ eat ’em to pass the time as you go. If you feel hungry when you come along back, just stop in. I’ll be glad to see your pretty face. It does a body good. Goin’ back before sundown?" "No," said Dawn; "I may stay some time. I’m not sure. But I thank you very much for your kind invitation, and I know I shall enjoy the doughnuts. I love doughnuts. We used to have them in school once a week in the winter, but only one apiece." "So you’ve been to boardin’-school!" The old woman would fain have detained her, but Dawn edged away toward the gate, thanking her sweetly all the while, and saying she must hasten, for the sun was getting high. She hurried down the road at last, pretending not to hear the old woman’s question about who were her friends in Schoharie, and where she was going to visit in the village. Her cheeks were bright with the excitement of the little episode, and she trilled a gay song as she fled on her unknown way. For the time being, all sadness was put away, and she was gay and free as a lark. Just a happy child. A farmer’s boy on a hay-wagon crawling along to the village stopped his whistling and stared at her; and the hired man on top of the load called out to him some remark about her that made the color grow brighter in her cheeks and her heart flutter wildly in her breast. She could not hear what words the man had spoken, but his tone had been contemptuous and familiar. She fairly flew by the team, and fled on down the road. By noon the johnny-cake and milk were dreams of the past, and she was exceedingly hungry, yet she had not come to a place where she cared to ask for dinner. Every farm-house she came to seemed to have plenty of farmhands about, coming in to their dinner, and she dreaded their eyes upon her. So she sat down under a tree by the roadside and ate her fat, sugary doughnuts, rested a few minutes, and plodded on. The afternoon was more wearisome. Her slippers hurt her feet, and she had to stop often to rest. About five o’clock she came to a neat-looking inn by the roadside, where a decent woman sat knitting by the door, and Dawn decided to sacrifice something from her small store of money and stop overnight.