"Why don't you go with a boy, then?" asked Celia, in a tone intended to
be severe and dignified.

"A boy isn't so nice," said Philip, with the air of stating a general
proposition, but not looking at her.


"Oh," said Celia, only half appeased, "I quite agree with you." And she
pulled down some beech leaves from a low, hanging limb and began to plait
a wreath.

"Who are you making that for?" asked Philip, who began to be aware that a
cloud had come over his holiday sky.

"Nobody in particular; it's just a wreath." And then there was silence,
till Philip made another attempt.

"Celia, I don't mind staying here if you are tired. Tell me something
about New York City. I wish we were there."

"Much you know about it," said Celia, but with some relaxation of her
severity, for as she looked at the boy in his country clothes and glanced
at her own old frock and abraded shoes, she thought what a funny
appearance the pair would make on a fashionable city street.

"Would you rather be there?" asked Philip. "I thought you liked living
here."

"Would I rather? What a question! Everybody would. The country is