s retreated again, and the
embarrassed brave realized that he was in a cruelly false position, his
very life, so to speak, depending on the strength a small girl's scream.

"I don't care!" said a dogged voice. "Bother your rivers! bother your
rivers! bother your rivers!"

The owner of the voice sat on the table and hummed fiercely. In
the stress of mental anguish caused by his position, Henry made a
miscalculation, and in turning bumped the table heavily with his head.

"Ough!" said the small girl breathlessly.

"Don't be frightened," said Henry, popping up humbly; "I won't hurt
you."

"Hoo!" said the small girl in a flutter; "a boy!"

Henry rose and seated himself respectfully, coughing confusedly, as he
saw the small girl's gaze riveted on his pockets.

"What have you got in your pockets?" she asked.

"Apples," said Henry softly. "I bought 'em in the town."

The small girl extended her hand, and accepting a couple, inspected them
carefully.

"You're a bad, wicked boy!" she said seriously as she bit into one.
"You'll get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!"

"Who's Miss Dimchurch?" inquired Henry with pardonable curiosity.

"Schoolmistress," said the small girl.

"Is this a school?" said Henry.

The small girl, her mouth full of apple, nodded.

"Any men here?" inquired Henry with an assumed carelessness.

The small girl shook her head.

"You're the only boy I've ever seen here," she said gleefully. "You'll
get it when Miss Dimchurch comes!"

His mind relieved of a great fear, Henry leaned back and smiled
confidently.

"I'm not afraid of the old girl," he said quietly, as he pulled out his
pipe and filled it.

The small girl's eyes glistened with admiration.

"I wish I was a boy," she said plaintively, "then I shouldn't mind her.
Are you a sailor-boy?"

"Sailor," corrected Henry; "yes."

"I like sailors," said the small girl amicably. "You may have a bite of
my apple if you like."

"Never mind, thanks," said Henry hastily; "I've got a clean one here."

The small girl drew herself up and eyed him haughtily, but finding that
he was not looking at her resumed her apple.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"'Enery Hatkins," replied the youth, as he remembered sundry cautions
about the letter h he had received at school. "What's yours?"

"Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt," said the small girl, sitting up
straighter to say it. "I don't like the name of Atkins."

"Don't you?" said Henry, trying no