THERE was not a very large party of us to go to Michigan City,—just Aunt Fannie and Uncle Fred and a Mrs. Walker, an old friend of theirs who used to live in the same town, and had twin daughters about twelve years old,—and they went along. They were mighty nice little girls, and looked so much alike that no one ever tried to tell which was Marian and which Margaret; but just said "Twinny," and that meant either, and either one answered. I asked one of them how she knew whether a person was speaking to—her or her sister, and she said,—"Why, I don't,—but it doesn't make any difference, does it?" I said I supposed not; but I heard the other one—I think it must have been the other one—say to Bess a while afterward,—
"Isn't it lovely to think that you are just yourself, and nobody else is you, and you are not anybody else?"
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Bess.
"I mean, I should think you'd be so sort of
