e when I grow up!"

"Hello, Phoebe," a cheery voice rang out, followed by a deeper
exclamation, "Phoebe!" as she came to the last intersection of streets
in the town and turned to enter the country road.

She turned a sober little face to the speakers, David Eby and his
cousin, Phares Eby.

"Hello," she answered listlessly.

"What's wrong?" asked the older boy as they joined her.

Both were plainly country boys accustomed to hard farm work, but their
tanned faces were frank and honest under broad straw hats. Each bore
marked family resemblances in their big frames, dark eyes and
well-shaped heads, but there was a distinct line drawn between their
personalities. Phares Eby at sixteen was grave, studious and dignified;
his cousin, David, two years younger, was a cheery, laughing, sociable
boy, fond of boyish sports, delighting in teasing his schoolmates and
enjoying their retaliation, preferring a tramp through the woods to the
best book ever written.

The boys lived on adjacent farms and had long been the nearest neighbors
of the Metz family; thus they had become Phoebe's playmates. Then, too,
the Eby families were members of the Church of the Brethren, the mothers
of the boys were old friends of Maria Metz, and a deep friendship
existed among them all. Phoebe and the two boys attended the same
little country school and had become frankly fond of each other.

"What's wrong?" asked Phares again as Phoebe hung her head and remained
silent.

"Ach," laughed David, "somebody's broke her dolly."

"Nobody ain't not broke my dolly, David Eby!" she said crossly. "I
wouldn't cry for _that_!"

"What's wrong then?--come on, Phoebe." He pushed the sunbonnet back and
patted her roguishly on the head. But she drew away from him.

"Don't you touch me," she cried. "I'm a Dutchie!"

"What?"

She tossed her head and became silent again.

"Come on, tell me," coaxed David. "I want to know what's wrong. Why, if
you don't tell me I'll be so worried I won't be able to eat any dinner,
and I'm so hungry now I could eat nails."

The girl laughed suddenly in spite of herself--"Ach, David, you're awful
simple! Abody has to laugh at you. I was mad, for when I was in
Greenwald I was smellin' a rose, that pink rose you gave me, and some
lady on Mollie Stern's porch laughed at me and called me a LITTLE
DUTCHIE! Now wouldn't you got mad for that?"

But David threw back his head and laughed. "And you were ready to cry at
that?" he sai