apped.

"How can you prove it, Elizabeth?"

"Don't call me that. I hate to be called Elizabeth."

"But you told me that was your name."

"Everybody calls me Beth. If you're nice, you may call me Beth."

"All right. How are you going to prove you're no 'fraid-cat,
Eli--Beth?"

She pondered a moment. "'Fraid-cats cry when they're hurt, don't they?"

"Of course. So do girls."

"I don't cry when I'm hurt," and she looked triumphant as if that
settled the matter. "Once when I was a little bit of a girl----"

"You're pretty small now."

"I'm a big girl, and you shouldn't interrupt. Well, once Marian----"

"Who's she?"

"She's my sister. Well, I wanted to light the gas, but Marian said I
was too small, but I'd not listen. I jumped up on a rocker to light
the gas. The chair rocked and, I fell against the windowsill. Marian
screamed, 'Beth's killed. She's covered with blood!'"

"Were you really?"

"Yes." Beth felt she was arguing her case well. "Mamma thought I just
had the nose bleed, but what do you s'pose? I had two mouths."

The boy's eyes grew big. "Two mouths--how jolly. How did it happen?"

"The window-sill had cut me right across here," she pointed to the
space just below her nose. "The doctor took five stitches, and when it
healed, took them out again. It hurt very much, but I didn't cry a
bit."

"Didn't it leave a scar on your face?"

She threw back her head.

"There, do you see that little white line under my nose? You can
hardly see it now."

The boy examined the spot critically. Then he changed the subject.
"Where did you live before you came here?"

"New York."

"Did you like it there?"

"No, it was horrid. I hated to be dressed up and sent for a walk."

He looked incredulous. "Most girls like to be dressed up."

"I don't."

"Don't you like to be told you are a pretty little girl with nice
clothes?"

"No, I don't."

He sniffed disdainfully. "Oh, go long. I don't believe that."

Beth grew very much in earnest, and thought of another little
illustration.

"Truth 'pon honor. One day a strange lady in a store put her hand on
my head, and said: 'What a pretty little girl.' It made me mad, so
that I just grunted and made up a face at her. My mamma said, 'Why,
Beth, that is very naughty.' I said, 'Well, mamma, what business is it
of hers whether I am pretty or not? It isn't my fault if I am pretty
and people shouldn't bother me.'"

The boy laughed.