"I say, don't-you-know, I say;" but Charling had flung herself face down on the turf and took no notice.
"I say, look here," he said; "I am not unkind, really. I was in an awful wax about something else, and I didn't understand. Oh! drop it. I say, look here, what's the matter? I'm not such a bad sort, really. Come, kiddie, what's the row?"
He dragged himself on knees and elbows to her side and began to pat her on the back, with some energy: "There, there," he said; "don't cry, there's a dear. Here, I've got a handkerchief, as it happens," for Charling was feeling blindly and vainly among the coloured chalks. He thrust the dingy handkerchief into her hands, and she dried her eyes, still sobbing.
"That's the style," said he. "Look here, we're like people in a book. Two travellers in misfortune meet upon a wild moor and exchange narratives. Come, tell me what's up?"
"You tell first," said Charling, rubbing her eyes very hard; "but swear eternal friendship before you begin, then we can't tell each other's secrets to the enemy."
He looked at her with a nascent approval. She understood how to play, then, this forlorn child in the torn white frock.
He took her hand and said solemnly—
"I swear."
"Your name," she interrupted. "I, N or M, swear, you know."
"Oh, yes. Well, I, Harry Basingstoke, swear to you—"