"Yes," came the assenting voice; and Simon Jr., once convinced that the pocket was closed to him, approached the child with easy confidence, and not only devoured the proffered salt, but continued to lick the grimy little palm when it was quite bare of that pleasing stimulant.
Then the child laughed, a queer little short, grown-up laugh, and declared: "I like Simon."
"So do I," said Amberley, casting about for some new blandishment. "Let's come up to the shanty and draw a picture of him."
"Yes," the little sphinx replied.
Amberley held out his hand, with a poignant dread lest she should refuse to take it; a thrill of pleasure, almost as poignant, went up his arm and so on to his heart, as the tiny hand rested in his own.
"What is your name?" he asked. They were rounding the big boulder and beginning the short ascent to the cabin.
"Eliza Christie, and I'm six years old," she replied, tugging the while at his hand, to help herself over a rough place. Then,—"What's yours?" she asked.
"Simon Amberley."
"Same's the calf," she commented. "Was either of you named for the other?"
"Yes; the calf was."