of effectiveness from being wholly unconscious. Nobody had as yet told Emily how very winsome that shy, sudden, up-glance of hers was.
“Isn’t he a rip-snorter?” said the boy easily. He thrust his hands into his ragged pockets and stared at Emily so fixedly that she dropped her eyes in confusion—thereby doing further damage with those demure lids and silken fringes.
“He’s dreadful,” she said with a shudder. “And I was so scared.”
“Were you now? And me thinking you were full of grit to be standing there like that looking at him cool as a cucumber. What’s it like to be afraid?”
“Weren’t you ever afraid?” asked Emily.
“No—don’t know what it’s like,” said the boy carelessly, and a bit boastfully. “What’s your name?”
“Emily Byrd Starr.”
“Live round here?”
“I live at New Moon.”
“Where Simple Jimmy Murray lives?”
“He isn’t simple,” cried Emily indignantly.
“Oh, all right. I don’t know him. But I’m going to. I’m going to hire with him for chore boy for the winter.”
“I didn’t know,” said Emily, surprised. “Are you really?”
“Yep. I didn’t know it myself till just this minute. He was asking Aunt Tom about me last week but I didn’t mean to hire out then. Now I guess I will. Want to know my name?”
“Of course.”
“Perry Miller. I live with my old beast of an Aunt Tom down at Stovepipe Town. Dad was a sea-captain and I uster sail with him when he was alive—sailed everywhere. Go to school?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t—never did. Aunt Tom lives so far away.
