“You look as fresh as a rose!” she exclaimed one morning, as Lois, with cheeks pink from exercise, came into one of the smaller recitation rooms where two or three girls were studying together.
“Well, I ought to have a color,” said Lois. “I’ve walked over from Newton.”
“Why, Lois Forsaith,” cried Polly, and “Lois Forsaith!” echoed Ruth. “Why in the world do you walk on a day like this?”
“This is just the kind of day for a walk. I had to stay indoors yesterday because my mother was ill, and on Sundays there is so much to attend to. I hadn’t time even to go to church. But the walk to-day has set me up again, and I feel equal to anything.”
“Walking is as bad as the gym.,” cried Polly Porson; “in the South we wouldn’t think either exactly ladylike. Why, until I came North I’d never walked a mile, really I never had, just for the sake of walking, I mean.”
“That’s nothing to be proud of,” commented Ruth. “Besides, I’d like to see any one try to walk on your Georgia roads—those red clay roads. I was in Atlanta once, and I know them. We were there two days on our way from Florida, and the roads were so bad that I wondered that feet in Georgia hadn’t become rudimentary from disuse.”
“Now, it isn’t so bad as that,” said Polly.
“Bad!” repeated Ruth. “Why, we started to drive one afternoon and our wheels sank deep into red clay until we were nearly buried alive.”
“Now, it isn’t so bad as that everywhere,” reiterated Polly. “You ought to have gone out Peach Tree Street; that’s a right good road, with a fine sidewalk, too.”
“Oh, I’ve seen Peach Tree Street, too, and I’ll admit that there’s no excuse for your not walking there.”