“That isn’t a house, yet,” said Mr. Duwell; “it is only the frame-work.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Wallace, “is that the way wooden houses are built?”
“It is, little city people,” replied Mr. Duwell. “No wonder you are not familiar with such a sight. City houses are not built of wood, because of the danger of fire.”
“I should like to see that house closer,” said Wallace.
“We’ll drive over there,” his father agreed, turning the horse’s head.
As they drew near, Wallace exclaimed, “Why, there’s Mr. Emerson on the porch; he is my teacher. I wonder what he is doing here.”
At that moment Mr. Emerson saw the boy. “Good afternoon, Wallace,” he said, lifting his hat and bowing to the party as he came toward the carriage.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson,” said Wallace, lifting his cap; “I should like to have you meet my mother and father.”
Mr. Emerson bowed, and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Duwell.