“Have you never been anywhere but just here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said she. “I’ve been up Indian River two or three times to Cooper’s store with father, and once I went up to Titusville, but that was a long time ago. I only remember that it was a great big place, with lots of houses and ever so many people. There may have been girls there, but I don’t remember seein’ any of ’em.”
“It must be dreadful to live in these woods always,” said Chap.
“There’s nothin’ dreadful about it,” replied Mary Brown. “The b’ars and wild-cats and painters won’t trouble you if you don’t trouble ’em, and the Indians that come along sometimes is just the same as tame white men. But I would kind o’ like to see other places. Father’s travelled about a good deal, and he’s telled me a lot of what he seed. He once went up to Jacksonville, and he’s been to Tallahassee, and in some of the places he says there are so many houses that they touch each other. But I always thought he was makin’ fun when he told me this. Why, when you had muddy feet, you’d either have to walk right through your house, or else go round the whole town to get to your back door. I can’t believe town-people is such fools as that.”
Chap laughed.
“I wish you could see a good big city for yourself,” said he.
“I’d like to,” replied the girl; and then changing the conversation, she asked, “Have you got a sister?”
“Yes,” said Chap,—“one.”
“What is her name?”
“Helen,” answered Chap.