She also continued to smile. Her teeth were very small and regular, her eyes were soft and brown, and some of her hair had blown up across the front of her tam-o-shanter, which matched the colour of her belt. Philip stood stock still, and surveyed her a little less severely. "Hallo, boy!" said the little girl again. "Hallo!" said Philip, in guarded tones. "I saw you on Sunday," the little girl informed him. "Yes, I know," said Philip coldly, and prepared to pass on. Uncle Joseph's warning had recurred to him with the mention of Sunday. "Don't go," said the small siren on the gate. "I think I will," said Philip. "Why?" Philip hesitated. Uncle Joseph had trained him always to say exactly what he thought, and never to make excuses. But he experienced a curious difficulty in informing this little creature that he was leaving her because she belonged to a dangerous and unscrupulous class of the community. It was the first stirring of chivalry within him. So he did not reply, but began to move away, rather sheepishly. The little girl promptly unlimbered her stern-chasers, and the scornful accusation rang out:-- "You're shy!" Into an ordinary boy such an insult would have burned like acid. But Philip merely said to himself thoughtfully, as he walked away:-- "I wonder if I _am_ shy?" Then presently he decided:-- "No, I'm not: I can't be, because I wanted to stay and talk to her!" He walked on a few yards, and then paused again. Boy nature, long dormant, was struggling vigorously to the surface. "I _won't_ be called shy!" he said to himself hotly. He turned and walked quickly back. The little girl was still sitting on the gate, studiously admiring the sunset. Once more Philip stood before her. "I say," he said nervously, "I'm not shy." The little girl looked down languidly. "Have you come back again?" she enquired. "Yes," said Philip, scarlet. "Why?" "I wanted to tell you," pursued Philip doggedly, "that I wasn't shy just now." The little girl nodded her head. "I see," she said coldly. "You were not shy--only rude. Is that it?" The greater part of Philip's short life had been spent, as the reader knows, in imbibing the principle that a man not only may, but, if he values his soul, must, be rude to women upon all occasions. It is therefore regrettable to have to record that at this point--at the very first encounter with the enemy--Philip threw his principles overboard. "Oh, no," he said in genuine distress. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. It--it was a different reason." The little girl made no reply for a moment, but stood up on her heels and unrolled her cushion to double its former width. "Come up here and tell me about it," she said maternally, patting the seat she had prepared. Philip began to climb the gate. Then he deliberately stepped down again. "Aren't you coming?" asked the little girl, with the least shade of anxiety in her voice.