“Only the cake an’ jell’ an’ canned peaches an’ stuff, an’ those stupid ol’ quilts an’ things,” said the girl, with spirit. “Those women are all ’s mad as wet hens because the quilt with red stars got the blue ribbon over the one with yellow moons on it, an’ they pretty near come to a scrap over those two big fruitcakes. One of ’em’s got white roses made out o’ tissue paper round the edge, an’ the other’s got a bride on top made out o’ sugar, with a real veil an’ bouquet. It’s awful cute.” “A bride made out of sugar must be pretty sweet,” said David, smacking his lips and smiling down into the pretty, foolish face at his side. “But I know somebody that’ll be a heap sweeter—when she’s a bride.” “Oh, Mis-ter Whitcomb!” breathed the girl, the pink brightening in her round cheeks. “But, of course, you meant—her. She’s awful good-lookin’.” “No; I didn’t mean—her,” said David, laughing outright. “I meant you, Jennie.” The girl looked down and bit her lips in pretty confusion. Then she sighed. “I shan’t never be a bride, I guess,” she said mournfully. “Why not? I’d like to know.” “Because—I—— If we’re goin’ out o’ here, I guess we’d better be movin’. Folks is lookin’ at us.” “I have no objections,” David said coolly. “Let ’em look.” “It was that insurance man that’s stayin’ t’ the Eagle,” whispered the girl. “I don’t like him a bit. He was right behind us; but he’s over there now, lookin’ at those sofa-pillows.” “You mean Todd? Oh, Todd’s all right. He’s a good fellow.” “I don’t like him snoopin’ ’round, just the same. He’s got eyes like a gimblet; ’n’ he looks at you like he was tryin’ t’ find out what you had fer breakfas’. Gus says he’s a tight-wad, too. He don’t spen’ nothin’ at the bar, ’xcept you or somebody treats him.” “He’s welcome to all he gets out of me,” drawled David. “Do you like your ice cream mixed or straight, Jennie?” “I guess maybe you’ll think I’m kind o’ funny, but I like those little round pancakes, folded around like a cornucopia with v’nilla ice cream inside. They’re awful good.” “All right; we’ll partake of cornucopias, to begin with. Perhaps we’ll work around to the other kinds after the races.” “Oh, are there goin’ to be races?” asked Jennie, nibbling prettily at the edges of the cone sparsely filled with vanilla ice cream, which the scarlet-faced man who presided over the gasoline stove and its adjacent can of cold stuff, handed her with a wipe of his sticky fingers on a long-suffering apron-front. “Get onto Gus, will you?” she whispered, as she bridled, laughed, blushed, and giggled by turns, under the baleful light of Mr. Bamber’s pale-green eyes. “I ’xpect he’ll kill me jus’ the minute he gets a chance. Gus hates you; did you know it, Mr. Whitcomb?” “Hates me? Why should he? I’m sure I’ve given the fellow tips enough,” David said arrogantly. All the light went out of the girl’s blue eyes.