"Yes—if you told me stories."
I contemplated her in silence for a moment. After a while she sat down under an oak and clasped her hands.
"I am growing so old," she sighed, "I no longer take pleasure in childish things Donald's dogs, Walter's humming birds, your butterflies. Jack?"
"What?"
"Sit down on the grass."
"What for?"
"Because I ask you."
I sat down.
Presently she said: "I am as tall as mamma. Why should I study algebra?"
"Because," I answered evasively.
"Your answer is as rude as though I were twenty, instead of sixteen," said Sweetheart. "If you treat me as a child from this moment, I shall hate you."
"Me—Sweetheart?"
"And that name!—it is good for children and kittens."
I looked at her seriously. "It is good for women, too when it is time," I said. "I prophesy that one day you will hear it again. As for me, I shall not call you by that name if you dislike it."
"I am a woman—now," she said.
"Oh! at sixteen."
"To-morrow I am to be seventeen."
