"What's the matter with you, Augusta?"
"Nothing,"—her face was sullen—"only I don't like to be ordered about."
"I'm not ordering you, as you put it, but I've a surprise for you and I want to tell you of it."
For answer she looked at him inquiringly.
"We're going to Chicago to-morrow."
Instead of the pleasure which he anticipated would light her dark eyes, there was a look rather of apprehension, of disapproval, of anything, in fact, but delight.
"Aren't you glad?" he asked in amazement.
"I'm not ready; I've no clothes."
"We can soon remedy that."
She stood before him in sullen silence and he finally asked—