hate worms. Wish they'd keep out of the way when I'm digging."

"Oh, I like worms when I'm digging," I replied heartily, "seem to
make things more lively, don't they?"

She reflected. "Shouldn't mind 'em so much if they were warm and
DRY," she said, "but--" here she shivered, and somehow I liked
her for it, though if it had been my own flesh and blood hoots of
derision would have instantly assailed her.

From worms we passed, naturally enough, to frogs, and thence to
pigs, aunts, gardeners, rocking-horses, and other fellow-citizens
of our common kingdom. In five minutes we had each other's
confidences, and I seemed to have known her for a lifetime.
Somehow, on the subject of one's self it was easier to be frank
and communicative with her than with one's female kin. It must
be, I supposed, because she was less familiar with one's faulty,
tattered past.

"I was watching you as you came along the road," she said
presently, "and you had your head down and your hands in your
pockets, and you weren't throwing stones at anything, or
whistling, or jumping over things; and I thought perhaps you'd
bin scolded, or got a stomach-ache."

"No," I answered shyly, "it wasn't that. Fact is, I was--I
often--but it's a secret."

There I made an error in tactics. That enkindling word set her
dancing round me, half beseeching, half imperious. "Oh, do