The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle--that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something--back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture. "Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it." "Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?" Ben agreed to the statement. An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes. "I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl. "Papa never does." The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment. Again there was a lull. "Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin. Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was not well. "You're _it_, ain't you?" he hesitated at last. This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire. "Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!" Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face grew very white. "What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily. Defiant still, the girl held her ground. "Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid cats always are!" "But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of." Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision. "You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing," she ventured.