“We’ll take a chance anyhow! When shall we start?”
“Right now. Shall you be warm enough in that thing?”
“‘That thing!’ I’d have you know this is a perfectly good leather jacket which my father gave me for Christmas.”
“My error! It’s good looking, anyhow.”
“You can’t fix it up now.”
Laughing and joking, as gay as the spring all around them, they swung briskly along the state road until they reached Tretton Woods; then they plunged in among the feathered trees.
“Oh!” cried Patricia. “Arbutus! The darlings!” Sinking down upon a bed of last year’s leaves, she tenderly plucked a couple of sprays. “It always seems a pity to tear up a whole lot of it,” she observed, handing one piece to Jack, and fastening the other in her own buttonhole.
A little deeper in the woods they came upon a merry little stream.
“Look, Pat,” exulted Jack, “at that brook. Let’s make a dam—”
“And a lake?” concluded Patricia, eagerly.