Jem pulled her down on the grass beside him, and kissed her cheek.
"How d'you do, little one? Can't get up, for I'm acting bolster. Here's somebody in mortal dread of a scolding from you. Tried to get over the stones, and turned giddy."
"Cyril is always frightened," Jean said, with disdain.
"It's not fear. He can't help the dizziness."
Jean looked up in surprise. "Can't he?"
"No. The feeling isn't cowardice. If he caved in, and made up his mind to be beaten, that would be cowardice. But he won't."
"I won't, really and truly, Jean," pleaded Cyril. "I did try so hard."
Jem's hand went with a tender motion over the curly hair. Jean saw and understood, the soft side of her nature springing in response.
"You won't mind some day, Cyril."
"Not he," said Jem. "He'll be as plucky as anything! See if he isn't! You must give him time. Everything isn't easy to everybody, you know. It really is braver of Cyril to get half over, feeling as he does, than for you to run backwards and forwards fifty times. Yes, of course, much braver!"—emphatically. "Because one is hard, and the other isn't. Mind, Cyril, don't try it alone for a time or two. Take Jean's hand, and try a few stones. Do a little more every day. By-and-by you won't care a rap."