“I am not at all tired; let us go on,” she insisted.
“I will show you where Latham’s fiancee lives,” he carelessly proposed.
“When are they to be married?” she asked, scarcely above her breath.
“I don’t know the date, but she will get one of the finest boys on earth. They will have this magnificent country home to spend their summers in, and that is such a blessing—the air out there is so pure and sweet and healthful. It is a great pity that everybody can’t get an occasional taste of country life.”
“I did not know we had come so far, but here we are in the woods—the real country. I can almost hear the frogs calling from slushy banks, and the faint, intermittent tinkle of cow-bells stealing over pasture lands. I do love the country!” she exclaimed, fervently.
“So do I,” laughed Robert, “but the country has its tragedies, too. For example: my old-maid Aunt once made me weed the onion bed on circus day. I would have had to ride a stick horse to the town, four miles away, where the tent was pitched, but children would do almost anything to get to a circus.”
“Yet you did not get to that one?” asked Cherokee, gaily.
“No, and for fifteen years I treasured that against my Aunt.”
“And I should not wonder if you hold it still.”
He dropped his voice to the register of tenderness and said, sadly: “I hold nothing against her now. The dear old creature had sorrow enough—she died unmarried.”