She was in snowy white--a quaint little frock, with
a marvel of soft lace around her throat and wrists. Through the sheer
sleeves of it her beautiful, rounded arms showed distinctly, and it was
cut just to the base of her perfect neck. On her head was a pure white
creation of fancy braid, with folds on folds of tulle, soft and silken
as cobwebs, lining the brim; while a mass of white roses clustered
against the gold of her hair, crept around the crown, and fell in a riot
to her shoulders at the back. There were gleams of gold with settings
of blue on her fingers, and altogether she was the daintiest, sweetest
sight he ever had seen. Freckles, standing on the curb, forgot himself
in his cotton shirt, corduroys, and his belt to which his wire-cutter
and pliers were hanging, and gazed as a man gazes when first he sees
the woman he adores with all her charms enhanced by appropriate and
beautiful clothing.
"Oh Freckles," she cried as she came to him. "I was wondering about you
the other day. Do you know I never saw you in town before.
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