much."

"Oh, Clifford! Why not?"

"Well, it's rather a queer name."

"Do you call him Eustace?"

"I call him Pickering, of course," said Clifford. "At school we don't
know each other's Christian names."

"Oh! ... Did you know mine before you came here, Clifford?"

"No. I only knew he had a kiddy sister, but he didn't tell me your
name."

She looked rather crushed. Cissy was a lovely child with golden hair,
parted on one side, and a dainty white and pink dress like a doll. Cissy
was in love with Clifford, but Clifford was in love with her mother.
This simple nursery tragedy may sound strange, but as a matter of fact
it is a kind of thing that happens every day. Similar complications are
to be found in almost every schoolroom.

"I hope you don't mind my saying that," said Clifford, who began to be
sorry for her. "About your being a kid. It doesn't matter a bit--for a
girl."

"Oh, Clifford! No, I don't mind." She smiled at him, consoled. "Eustace
will soon be home. He's gone to get something."

"Oh, good."

"Do you mind his not being here yet?"

"No, not a bit."

"You told me you had something to show me," said the little girl.
"You've been writing poetry. I _should_ so like to see it."

He blushed and said: "I've brought it. But I don't think it's any good.
I don't think I'll show it to you."

"Oh, please, please, _please_, do!"

"You'll go telling everyone. Girls always do."

"I promise, I _swear_ I won't! Not a soul. Not even mummy. I never tell
Eustace's secrets."

"I should think not! Now mind you don't, then. Will you, Cissy?"

"Oh, do go on, dear Clifford; because when Eustace is here we shall have
to play games--'Happy Families' or something--and I sha'n't have another
chance. I believe he's got some joke on. I hear you've written a play.
Have you?"

"Well, I began an historical play," said Clifford, who was beginning to
think a little sister with proper respect for one might be rather a
luxury, "but I chucked it. I found it was rather slow. So then I tried
to write a poem. But I'm not going to grow up and be one of those rotten
poets with long hair, that you read of. Don't think that."

"Aren't you? Oh, that's right. What are you going to be, Clifford?"

"Oh! I think I shall be an inventor or an explorer, and go out after the
North or South Pole, or shoot lions."

"Oh! How splendid! Won't you take me? I'd _love_ to come!"

He smiled. "It wouldn't do for girls."

"But I sha'n't be