"Ton said—Oconomowoc. Is that where you are going?"
"Queer name, isn't it? What's the place like?"
"If you've got a chance to go there, you go." The oracle spoke and retired into his book.
George went. The train made its rapid run up to Milwaukee, took its short stop, and turned westward on its way towards La Crosse. At Pewaukee there was the usual halt; it lengthened to an unusual halt. George paced the long platform impatiently; his mind had projected itself through Nagowicka and Nashotah and Okauchee to Oconomowoc, and his body was eager to follow.
"What's the trouble?" he asked the brakeman.
"St. Paul express late—passes us here."
The platform was swarming with passengers and townspeople. A figure rushed through the crowd and grasped George by the hand.
"So you're gallivanting, too? And I'll bet a nickel you've been aboard all the way up—parlor-car. Now, haven't you?" The voice sounded a trumpet-note of wide-flung triumph. It was Cornelia's.
Her cheeks blazed and her eyes burned with the magnificence of conscious conquest. Her glory spread about her the same succession of flowing circles that a stone spreads over a pond. It seemed as if her expansiveness must crowd the train from its track and the station from its foundations.
"Ma," she called back into the crowd, "come here—do! I want you to meet Mr. Ogden. He's one of my most particular friends; but I guess you don't need to be told that—you've heard enough about him. Mr. Ogden, this is my mother, and she's about the best mother that ever lived."