“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 a good place to go to when you are tired, as mamma is.  But the city!  The big fine houses, and the people all going about in a hurry; the streets all lighted up at night, so that you can see miles and miles of lights; and the horses and carriages, and the lovely dresses, and the churches full of nice people, and such beautiful music!  And once mamma took me to the theatre.  Oh, Phil, you ought to see a play, and the actors, all be-a-u-ti-fully dressed, and talking just like a party in a house, and dancing, and being funny, and some of it so sad as to make you cry, and some of it so droll that you had to laugh—­just such a world as you read of in books and in poetry.  I was so excited that I saw the stage all night and could hardly sleep.”  The girl paused and looked away to the river as if she saw it all again, and then added in a burst of confidence: 

“Do you know, I mean to be an actress some day, when mamma will let me.”

“Play-actors are wicked,” said Phil, in a tone of decision; “our minister says so, and my uncle says so.”

“Fudge!” returned Celia.  “Much they know about it.  Did Alice say so?”

“I never asked her, but she said once that she supposed it was wrong, but she would like to see a play.”

“There, everybody would.  Mamma says the people from the country go to the theatre always, a good deal more than the people in the city go.  I should like to see your aunt Patience in a theatre and hear what she said about it.  She’s an actress if ever there was one.”

Philip opened his eyes in protest.

“Mamma says it is as good as a play to hear her go on about people, and what they are like, and what they are going to do, and then her little rooms are just like a scene on a stage.  If they were in New York everybody would go to see them and to hear her talk.”