Flyaway peeped in too, placing her smooth pink cheek beside Miss
Polly's wrinkled one.
"I don't look alike, Miss Polly," said she; "and you don't look alike
too."
Certainly not; no more alike than a blush-rose bud and a dried apple.
"What makes the red go out of folks' cheeks when they grow old, and
the wrinkles crease in, like the pork in baked beans?" queried Dotty.
"I couldn't tell you," replied the good lady, giving a pat to her cap,
and settling the bows carefully; "but if you had asked how I happened
to grow old before my time, I should say I'd had such a hard chance
through life, and trouble always leaves its mark."
"Does it? O, dear! I have trouble,--ever so much; will it quirk my
face all up, like yours?"
"You have trouble, Dotty Parlin? Haven't you found out yet that the
lines have fallen to you in pleasant places?"
"I don't know what you mean by lines," said Dotty, thinking of
fish-hooks; "but when it rains, and folks want me to do things that
are real hard, then why, I'm blue, now truly.
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