"Nice! There never was such a boy as Oswald in all the world—never!" declared the little sister, her soul shining in her face. "No, he isn't like me. Oh, of course not! I'm ugly; and he is—Oh, you don't know Oswald yet! Wait till you do! He is—he is—just Oswald!" cried Jean rapturously, as if the name implied everything.
"You're not ugly."
"Yes, I am. Everybody says so. It doesn't matter. I've got Oswald."
"Shall I like him?"
"I shouldn't like you, if you didn't."
Cyril looked thoughtful.
Jean was longing to be off; but a sense of this little fellow's helplessness restrained her.
"Where do you mean to go?" she asked.
"I don't know the way back."
"Why, over the stones, of course—as you came."