Brown! Of all deadly colours! I should go mad in brown."
Elnora laughed as she read. Her face was dimpling as she handed back the sheet. "Who's ahead?" she asked.
"Who do you think?" he parried.
"She is," said Elnora. "Are you going to tell her in your next that R. B. Grosbeak is a bird, and that he probably will spend the winter in a wild plum thicket in Tennessee?"
"No," said Ammon. "I shall tell her that I understand her ideas of life perfectly, and, of course, I never shall ask her to deal with oily butter and frozen pumps—"
"—and measly babies," interpolated Elnora.
"Exactly!" said Ammon. "Just the same I find so much to counterbalance those things, that I should not object to bearing them myself, in view of the recompense. Where do we go and what do we do to-day?"
"We will have to wander along the roads and around the edge of the Limberlost to-day," said Elnora. "Mother is making strawberry preserves, and she can't come until she finishes. Suppose we go down to the swamp and I'll show you what is left of the flower-room that Terrence O'More, the big lumber man of Great Rapids, made when he was a homeless boy here. Of course, you have heard the story?"
"Yes and I've met the O'Mores, who are frequently in Chicago society. They have friends there. I think them one ideal couple."
