"He, he, he!" giggled Tavia. "What is the matter now, child?" demanded Dorothy Dale, haughtily. "There are no 'hes' in this lane. The road is empty before us——" "And the world would be, too, if it wasn't for the possible 'hes' that are to come into our lives," quoth Tavia, with shocking frankness. "You talk like a cave girl," declared her chum. "Is there nothing on your mind but boys?" "Yes'm! More boys!" chuckled Tavia. "It is June. The bridal-wreath is in bloom. If 'In spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,' can't our girls' fancies turn in June to thoughts of white lace veils, shoes that pinch your feet horribly—and can't we dream of hobbling up to the altar to the sound of Mendelssohn's march?" "Hobble to the haltar, you mean," sniffed Dorothy, with her best suffragette air. "How smart!" crowed her chum. "But you2 mustn't blame me for giggling this morning—you mustn't!" "Why not? What particular excuse have you?"