“Like Miss Diantha,” Ruth replied.
“Mrs. Sandy, you mean. Nobody ever calls her Miss Diantha now.”
“Don’t you suppose it would please her if we did? Maybe she still loves Queen’s Ferry and the old Hall, Miss Murray.”
“But she loves ‘Sandy’ better, Ruth.”
“Do you know,” interrupted Isabel suddenly. “I don’t think this scenery is so very different from ours.”
“I do,” Ted said flatly. “There are no blue mountain lines banked up against the sky, and the earth looks kind of yellow. And where it is dry it seems very, very dry, and where it is swampy, it is awfully swampy. I never saw such swampy looking swamp as we passed going through these Indiana woods.”
“Wait until we find ourselves out in the prairie lands, and the corn fields rise around for miles and miles, and the wheat looks like a golden ocean.”
“When will we be there, Miss Murray?”
“When you open your eyes to-morrow morning, and cross Iowa and Nebraska. We’re cutting across Indiana now, and will reach Chicago about eleven-twenty.”
“It all seems like a dream,” Polly exclaimed. “Isn’t it queer, the feeling you have when things come true that you’ve always hoped might? I love to talk to Mrs. Timony—that’s the mother of the twins, you know.”