Freckles.

"I did that three days ago," acknowledged Elnora. "I am half expecting
her on the noon boat. That is one reason why this violin grows worse
every minute. There is nothing at all the matter with me."

"Splendid!" cried the Angel. "I've begged and begged her to do it. I
know how anxious these mothers become. When did you send? What made you?
Why didn't you tell me?"

"'When?' Three days ago. 'What made me?' You. 'Why didn't I tell you?'
Because I can't be sure in the least that she will come. Mother is the
most individual person. She never does what every one expects she will.
She may not come, and I didn't want you to be disappointed."

"How did I make you?" asked the Angel.

"Loving Alice. It made me realize that if you cared for your girl like
that, with Mr. O'More and three other children, possibly my mother, with
no one, might like to see me. I know I want to see her, and you had told
me to so often, I just sent for her. Oh, I do hope she comes! I want her
to see this lovely place."

"I have been wondering what you thought of Mackinac," said Freckles.

"Oh, it is a perfect picture, all of it! I should like to hang it on
the wall, so I could see it whenever I wanted to; but it isn't real, of
course; it's nothing but a picture."

"These people won't agree with you," smiled Freckles.

"That isn't necessary," retorted Elnora. "They know this, and they
love it; but you and I are acquainted with something different. The
Limberlost is life. Here it is a carefully kept park. You motor, sail,
and golf, all so secure and fine. But what I like is the excitement of
choosing a path carefully, in the fear that the quagmire may reach out
and suck me down; to go into the swamp naked-handed and wrest from it
treasures that bring me books and clothing, and I like enough of a fight
for things that I always remember how I got them. I even enjoy seeing a
canny old vulture eyeing me as if it were saying: 'Ware the sting of
the rattler, lest I pick your bones as I did old Limber's.' I like
sufficient danger to put an edge on life. This is so tame. I should have
loved it when all the homes were cabins, and watchers for the stealthy
Indian canoes patrolled the shores. You wait until mother comes, and if
my violin isn't angry with me for leaving it, to-night we shall sing you
the Song of the Limberlost. You shall hear the big gold bees over the
red, yellow, and purple flowers, bird song, wind talk, and the whispers
of Sle