THE next afternoon Lee made an elaborate toilette. She buttoned her boots properly, sewed a stiff, white ruffle in her best gingham frock, and combed every snarl out of her hair. Mrs. Tarleton, who was sitting up, regarded her with some surprise.
“It’s nowhere near dinner time, honey,” she said, finally. “Why are you dressing up?”
Lee blushed, but replied with an air: “I expect that little boy I told you about, to come to see me—the English one. He carried my bag to school yesterday, and gave me an apple and an orange. I’ve kept the orange for you when you’re well. His name’s Cecil Maundrell.”
“Ah! Well, I hope he is a nice boy, and that you will be great friends.”
“He’s nice enough in his way. But he’d just walk over me if I’d let him. I can see that.”
Mrs. Tarleton looked alarmed. “Don’t let him bully you, darling. Englishmen are dreadfully high and mighty.”
There was a faint and timid rap upon the door.
“That’s him,” whispered Lee. “He’s afraid of me all the same.”
She opened the door. Young Maundrell stood there, his cheeks burning, his hands working nervously in his pockets. He looked younger than most lads of his age, and had all that simplicity of boyhood so lacking in the precocious American youth.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Lee politely.