“I beg pardon,” he stammered, his eyes full of nervous tears. “But—but—you looked so tired at breakfast, and you didn’t eat; I thought I’d like to carry your books.”
Lee’s face beamed with delight, and its fatigue vanished, but she said primly: “You’re very good, I’m sure, and I like boys that do things for girls.”
“I don’t usually,” he replied hastily, as if fearful that his dignity had been compromised. “But, let’s come along. You’re late.”
They walked in silence for a few moments. The lad’s courage appeared exhausted, and Lee was casting about for a brilliant remark; she was the cleverest girl in her class and careful of her reputation. But her brain would not work this morning, and fearing that her new friend would bolt, she said precipitately:
“I’m eleven. How old are you?”
“Fourteen and eleven months.”
“My name’s Lee Tarleton. What’s yours?”
“Cecil Edward Basil Maundrell. I’ve got two more than you have.”
“Well you’re a boy, anyhow, and bigger, aren’t you? I’m named after a famous man—second cousin, General Lee. Lee was my father’s mother’s family name.”
“Who was General Lee?”