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 some new blandishment. "Let's come up to the shanty and draw a picture of him."

"Yes," the little sphinx replied.

Amberley held out his hand, with a poignant dread lest she should refuse to take it; a thrill of pleasure, almost as poignant, went up his arm and so on to his heart, as the tiny hand rested in his own.

"What is your name?" he asked. They were rounding the big boulder and beginning the short ascent to the cabin.

"Eliza Christie, and I'm six years old," she replied, tugging the while at his hand, to help herself over a rough place. Then,—"What's yours?" she asked.

"Simon Amberley."

"Same's the calf," she commented. "Was either of you named for the other?"

"Yes; the calf was."

"I was named for my sainted grandmother. Bella Jones says Eliza's an ugly name, but Ma says if 't was good enough for my sainted grandmother it's good enough for me."

"I think Eliza's a real pretty name," Amberley declared in a tone of conviction, as he warded off the renewed advances of Simon. "If ever I have another calf I shall call it Eliza."