n the chatter of a gray squirrel in the tree above him than on
the complaints of his comrade.

"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