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 a girl so young and so unfamiliar with life as she.

As I took my seat beside her, on the trunk of the fallen tree, she seemed to feel that an explanation was in order.

“Darius has a very pleasant knack of memorizing good poetry,” she began. “I wish you could have heard him reciting ‘You know, we French stormed Ratisbon,’ a moment ago. But perhaps you did?”

“No,” said I.

“It is rather nice, I think,” continued Miss Berrith, “that a boy in his position should be good at Browning.”

“It is rather lamentable,” I retorted, with a rueful glance at my rusty boots, “that he is not equally good at blacking.”

“He has a soul above blacking,” said Miss Berrith lightly.

“Whereas blacking above a sole,” said I, “would be very much more to the point. Seriously, Miss Berrith, I hope you are not spoiling