Whatever might have been the pedantic or obtrusively condescending quality of those words, Rebecca seemed to find nothing distasteful in them. She looked up with a "Thank you," and a pleased, trustful face like a child's. "I can't do this one," said she. "I've finished the rest, but this wouldn't come right, somehow." It was a sum in simple addition. I could not help a feeling of deep surprise and commiseration that one of Rebecca's age should have stumbled at it at all, but I essayed to examine it very closely and worked it out for her as slowly as possible. "Do you see your mistake?" I said. She blushed painfully. The tears almost stood in her eyes. "Yes, and I knew you'd have to find out how dull I was," she said; "but I dreaded it. When Miss Waite was here, mother was sick and I didn't go to school at all, and Miss Waite took me for a friend; and I told mother I'd most rather not go to school to you, for Miss Waite said you'd be a real friend, and I knew you wouldn't want me when you found how dull I was." I looked at the girl, and a bright, hesitating smile woke in her face. "Do you know, Rebecca," I said, "I don't choose my friends for their mental qualifications--for what they know; I select them just as people do horses--by their teeth. Let me see yours." Rebecca laughed most musically, thus disclosing two brilliant rows of ivories. I had noticed them before. "You'll do!" I exclaimed, lightly. "I take you into my heart of hearts. Now, what is your standard of choice? What charming characteristic do you First require in a friend, Rebecca?" "Oh!" said she, gasping a little and speaking very slowly; "I--don't--know. I--don't--think--I've got any." "Don't be afraid lest you shall guess something that I have not, my dear," I said; "You can hardly go astray. Begin with modesty, if you please, truly the chief of virtues." Rebecca caught quickly the meaning in my tone, and answered with a low ripple of laughter. When I urged her, she grew gravely embarrassed. "Well," said she; "I don't think I should want anybody that I thought I couldn't ever help them any, you know. That wouldn't ever need me, I mean, and I know," she went on more hastily; "it seems funny to say that to you, because it seems as though there wasn't anything that I could ever do for you--because you--you seem--not to need anybody--but I didn't know but some time--there might be something--I thought--maybe--some time." Rebecca paused and looked up at me with that pitifully beseeching expression in her eyes. "Oh, yes," I answered, still carelessly; "no doubt I shall be a great burden to you in time. But you do help me now, dear, by your conduct in school. You helped me this morning when you boxed Lemuel Biddy's ears. I shall have to take boxing lessons of you." "You be the scholar," Rebecca answered quickly, her lips parting again with a merry outburst of laughter.