“I like you better than the other girl.”
“You have no right to,” retorted the casuist; “you've known her longer.”
“That doesn't make any difference,” said the boy; “there are lots of people I don't like I have always known. This girl doesn't live in Brampton, anyway.”
“Where does she live?” demanded Cynthia,—which was a step backward.
“At the state capital. Her name's Janet Duncan. There, do you believe me now?”
William Wetherell had heard of Janet Duncan's father, Alexander Duncan, who had the reputation of being the richest man in the state. And he began to wonder who the boy could be.
“I believe you,” said Cynthia; “but as long as you made it for her, it's hers. Will you take it?”
“No,” said he, determinedly.
“Very well,” answered Cynthia. She laid down the whistle beside him on the rail, and went off a little distance and seated herself on a bench. The boy laughed.
“I like that girl,” he remarked; “the rest of 'em take everything I give 'em, and ask for more. She's prettier'n any of 'em, too.”