CHAPTER III.


Young Little WAS clever. At seven he had constructed a telescope;
at nine, a flying-machine. At ten he saved a valuable life.

Norwood Park was the adjacent estate,--a lordly domain dotted with
red deer and black trunks, but scrupulously kept with gravelled
roads as hard and blue as steel. There Little was strolling one
summer morning, meditating on a new top with concealed springs. At
a little distance before him he saw the flutter of lace and
ribbons. A young lady, a very young lady,--say of seven summers,--
tricked out in the crying abominations of the present fashion,
stood beside a low bush. Her nursery-maid was not present,
possibly owing to the fact that John the footman was also absent.

Suddenly Little came towards her. "Excuse me, but do you know what
those berries are?" He was pointing to the low bush filled with
dark clusters of shining--suspiciously shining--fruit.

"Certainly; they are blueberries."

"Pardon me; you are mistaken. They belong to quite another
family."

Miss Impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three
feet nine and a half inches), and, curling an eight of an inch of
scarlet lip, said, scornfully. "YOUR family, perhaps."