“Oh,” said Bobby Hargrew, “when folks go fox-hunting in the fall they wear red coats, because the fox is red, I suppose. Now, you ought to wear a nut-brown suit, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, Purt,” drawled Lance Darby, “something nutty will suit you, all right, all right!”
The girls wore sweaters and old caps and old skirts and lace up boots—all but Lily. She came “dressed to the nines,” as Bobby declared.
“What under the sun are you supposed to represent, Lil?” demanded Jess Morse. “You—you look like a fancy milkmaid.”
“Well, I’m going into the country; I shall look the part,” said Lily, demurely.
“Oh, say!” continued Jess, in a whisper, “you’ve got altogether too much red on your cheeks for a milkmaid, young lady.”
At that Lily flushed deeper than the “fast color” on her cheek.
“Is that so, Miss?” she snapped. “I guess a milkmaid ought to be rosy-cheeked.”
Chet, going by, overheard this. He glanced at the red spots in Lily’s naturally pale cheek, and laughed.
“On the contrary,” he said, winking at Jess.