Chicken Little bristled. "Hm-n, Walter Scott and Washington Irving, trashy! Shows how much you know, if you have graduated from High School, Sherman Dart! Besides, I didn't mean any such thing. Only, you sort of take my things without asking--as if--as if----" She was getting into rather deeper water than she had anticipated. "Yes, as if what?" "Oh, I don't suppose you mean it that way--but you act as if I was only a silly little girl--and didn't count!" Chicken Little was decidedly red in the face by the time she finished. Sherm didn't say anything for a moment, but he continued to look at her. He looked at her as if he had found something about her he hadn't noticed before. "Who put that idea into your head?--Mamie?" She shook her head indignantly. "Grant Stowe?" "Nobody, thank you, I guess I have a mind of my own." "New teacher start in by giving you a lecture on deportment?" Chicken Little stamped her foot. "You're perfectful hateful--and I sha'n't walk another step with you!" They were near the gate leading from the lane into the orchard and she suited the action to the word, by darting through it and running off under the trees. Sherm looked after her a moment, undecided whether to stand on his dignity or to pursue. He had considered Jane a little girl--most of the time. Some way she was alluringly different to-day. He suddenly resolved that he would not be flouted in any such fashion. It took him about two minutes to catch up with Chicken Little and slip his arm through hers. "No, you don't, Miss. You are going to sit down here under this tree and tell me exactly what's the matter!" Chicken Little struggled rebelliously, but Sherm held her firmly. "I can't--Mother told me to come straight home from school; she wanted me." "Fibber! Your mother and Marian went over to Benton's this afternoon. You needn't try to dodge--you and I are going to have this out right now. So you might as well be obliging and sit down comfortably." "It wasn't anything to make such a fuss about." "Then why are you making such a row?" Chicken Little flung herself down upon the grass. Sherm stretched his muscular length on the sward in front of her and began to chew a grass stem in a leisurely fashion while he watched her. Chicken Little pulled a handful of long grasses and commenced plaiting them. Her hair was windblown and her face rose-flushed from her run. She declined to look at Sherm. "Chicken Little--O Chicken Little, are you very mad? Chicken Little?" Chicken Little kept her brown eyes fixed upon the pliant stems. "Chicken Little," Sherm murmured softly, "you have the prettiest eyes of any girl I know." Chicken Little caught the touch of malice in his tone and shot an indignant glance at him from the aforesaid eyes. Sherm laughed delightedly. "Chicken Little, you don't need to tell me what's the matter with you--I know."