"Please don't," she returned, her voice trembling.
"Don't what, may I ask?" he laughed.
"Please don't call me 'little girl'; I—I don't like it," she returned, not knowing what else to say and still uneasy—outraged, really, if she had understood her feelings. She sat down quickly, and as he turned to look at the torrent below, slid down the rock in safety. Sperry's brow knit. What surprised him was to find her different from the girls he had known. Then he said in an absent way:
"What splendid rapids!"
"It's the most beautiful old stream in the world," replied Margaret, glad he had found another topic besides herself.
"But be careful," he cautioned her a few rods farther on; "it's slippery here. Come, give me your arm."
Again she evaded him.
"I'm not an invalid," she laughed—she was farther from him now and her courage had accordingly increased.
"Of course you're not—whoever said you were. Invalids do not have cheeks like roses, my little girl, and yours are wonderful to-day."
The girl turned away her head in silence, and the two picked their steps the remainder of the way down to the brook without speaking. There she made a spring and landed on a flat rock about the edge of which swirled the green water of a broad pool. Sperry, undaunted, seated himself beside her.