"And are American little boys the best little boys?" asked Winterbourne.

"I don't know. I'm an American boy," said the child.

"I see you are one of the best!" laughed Winterbourne.

"Are you an American man?" pursued this vivacious infant.
And then, on Winterbourne's affirmative reply--"American men
are the best," he declared.

His companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child,
who had now got astride of his alpenstock, stood looking
about him, while he attacked a second lump of sugar.
Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy,
for he had been brought to Europe at about this age.

"Here comes my sister!" cried the child in a moment.
"She's an American girl."

Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful
young lady advancing. "American girls are the best girls,"
he said cheerfully to his young companion.

"My sister ain't the best!" the child declared.
"She's always blowing at me."

"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne.
The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin,
with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon.