"N-no"--he looked suspiciously at the silver-gray leaf--"no, thank you." "Why not?" "I don't like touching things like that." "But why?" "Oh, just an absurd notion of mine." "But is it a notion, or is it a real feeling?" He laughed. "Now I know what reality is to my cousin Val." "But this isn't prickly. It's soft as velvet." "I know--too much like velvet." "Do you hate soft things?" "No, but I hate things that catch my nails." He gave a little comic shiver. "Is _that_ why you won't take a peach in your fingers?" "You've noticed?" He turned his head and glanced down at her. She looked away. "I wonder what makes you like that?" she said. "Can't imagine." "It must make you shiver inside just to _look_ at our velveteen jackets." "I don't so much mind looking at them." "But you'd hate to touch them?" He laughed. "Yes, fair catechist, I would; and if the murder must out, it's because of Emmie's velvet jacket that Emmie's ankle's hurt. She wouldn't have fallen if I had lifted her down instead of giving her my hand." "Well, you _are_ funny! I don't think much of velveteen myself, but I like real velvet. And all of us girls simply love the feel of mullein, and when we want to have nice pink cheeks," she said, in a burst of confidence, "we do like this." She rubbed the leaf hard first on one cheek and then on the other, till each one flew a scarlet flag. "Most effective," said Ethan, with deliberate eyes on the girl; "but for my part, I'd rather my cheeks were white, or even pea-green, than have that thing touch me." Val threw the mullein away. "I'm afraid I haven't any fine feelings," she said. "I like everything." "I don't believe it." She couldn't bear that compelling look of his. "It takes so long like this," she said; "I'm going to run to the top," and she raced on before him. But even so he reached her again before the slow-moving carriage, going the long way round. When he, too, got to the top, he saw her standing some little distance from the road on the brow of the hill, looking down upon river and town; her dress blown well back from the firmly set feet, the old velveteen jacket following--more from long habit than from excellence of cut--the slim young outlines, the shabby little hat held down upon the wind-roughened hair with one hand, the other hand thrust in a side-pocket. It was an unkempt picture of no great prettiness, and no thought of prettiness, but it gave a curious impression of eager life; a kind of dauntlessness and good faith that hit upon the heart. "Well, America, what do you think of the prospect?" said his voice behind her. She turned round with a bright look. "Much more than I'm going to tell you, to be laughed at for my pains." "Oh, well, I can see it for myself--a smoky valley, a muddy river with many bridges, some stormy-looking clouds--" "Oh, _that's_ not what I see." "What then?"