Hilda watched him for some moments, many new thoughts revolving in her
head. How many country boys were there who taught themselves in this
way? How many, among the clever girls at Mademoiselle Haut-ton's
school, had this sort of ambition to learn, of pride in learning? Had
she, the best scholar in her class, had it? She had always known her
lessons, because they were easy for her to learn, because she had a
quick eye and ear, and a good memory. She could not help learning,
Mademoiselle said. But this,--this was something different!

"What is your name?" she asked, with a new interest.

"Bubble Chirk," replied the freckled boy, with one eye on his book, and
the other measuring a tall spire of pigweed, towards which he stretched
his hand.

"WHAT!" cried Hilda, in amazement.

"Bubble Chirk!" said the boy. "Kin' o' curus name, ain't it? The hull of
it's Zerubbabel Chirk; but most folks ain't got time to say all that. It
trips you up, too, sort o'. Bubble's what they call me; 'nless it's
Bub."

The contrast between the boy's earnest and rather pathetic face, and
his absurdly volatile name, was almost too much for Hilda's gravity. But
she checked the laugh which rose to her lips, and asked: "Don't you go
to school at all, Bubble? It is a pity that you shouldn't, when you are
so fond of study."

"Gin'lly go for a spell in the winter," replied Bubble. "They ain't no