"O, what a funny little town," she said, after kissing Rose how-de-do. "Are we to ride in this carriage? O, I'm so disappointed!"
"Why so?"
"O, I wanted to ride on a hay-cart or dray or whatever it is. Mr. Dutcher, I'm so glad to see you." She sprang upon John and kissed him, "like a swaller lightin' on me," he said afterward. It astonished him but gratified him.
"Do you live far out in the country—the real country?" she asked.
"Well, you'd think so if you had to haul corn over it in the spring," he replied.
"I'd like to haul corn over it," she replied. "May I?"
"You can do anything you want to," John said.
Josie got at the picturesque qualities of the people. They all interested her and amused her like the cattle without horns, and the guinea-hens which clacked like clocks, and the tadpoles in the marsh. She had no personal relations—no responsibilities toward them such as Rose felt were inescapably hers. Josie had no responsibilities at all, none under heaven!
She laughed at the ill-made dresses, and winked over the heads of the old wives when they talked in dialect, and made fun of the boys who came courting her, and sang "Where did they get those hats?" after coming out of the church.
Rose laughed and yet suffered, as one might whose blood relatives were ridiculed. It was a new experience to John Dutcher to have one about who cried out at everything as if it were the seventh wonder. The summer visitor had never before penetrated to his farm and all the women he had ever known could talk about cattle and drainage and wool-washing almost like men. In his interest and desire to do the part of entertainer, he pushed on into subjects which the girl listened to with wonder-wide eyes and a flushed face.