“I don’t know, only——”
“Only what? Out with it, little girl.”
“I—I’m kind of scared of you, Mr. Whitcomb,” faltered the girl. “You—you’re so—tall—’n’—’n’ handsome, ’n’ you——”
David laughed outright. The girl’s eyes and voice conveyed so delicious a flattery that he could not help the tenderness that crept into his words.
“Why, you dear little goose, you,” he said in her ear, “I won’t hurt you, and nobody else shall, either, when I’m around. Come, we’ll go and eat that ice cream, right where Augustus Bamber, Esquire, can see us; then we’ll take in the other attractions. Have you seen anything yet?”
“Only the cake an’ jell’ an’ canned peaches an’ stuff, an’ those stupid ol’ quilts an’ things,” said the girl, with spirit. “Those women are all ’s mad as wet hens because the quilt with red stars got the blue ribbon over the one with yellow moons on it, an’ they pretty near come to a scrap over those two big fruitcakes. One of ’em’s got white roses made out o’ tissue paper round the edge, an’ the other’s got a bride on top made out o’ sugar, with a real veil an’ bouquet. It’s awful cute.”
“A bride made out of sugar must be pretty sweet,” said David, smacking his lips and smiling down into the pretty, foolish face at his side. “But I know somebody that’ll be a heap sweeter—when she’s a bride.”
“Oh, Mis-ter Whitcomb!” breathed the girl, the pink brightening in her round cheeks. “But, of course, you meant—her. She’s awful good-lookin’.”
“No; I didn’t mean—her,” said David, laughing outright. “I meant you, Jennie.”
The girl looked down and bit her lips in pretty confusion. Then she sighed.