"Well, anyway, I am going up myself, some day, but not with horses. Horses couldn't do it. When I go I shall go with a kite, a big kite with a long string. I shall have a box kite. You know what a box kite is?" "I think so." "Well, it will be a big box kite longer'n this room, with me sitting inside and Luther Dean flying it. When it gets ten miles up in the air I shall reach down with long scissors and cut the string." As he stepped back to study the effect of this news, she found his drowsy eyes were no longer drowsy, but wider open and all aglow with enthusiasm. "That's my own idea!" She smiled and nodded. "Yes, it is very original." "And then I shall sail way up as high as I want to. Perhaps to the moon!" "Yes, that will be very nice." "What's the use of crawling about on the earth like a bug? I'd rather be a bird." Miss Clement nodded assent and lowered her eyes to the mutilated Bible. But his enthusiasm was contagious. She almost believed, for a moment, that he could do it. However, she was uncomfortable in the presence of this barbarian. She knew, from experience, the awful frankness of a boy; the statements he can make, and his cruel questions; questions that upheave religions, that lay bare your secret doubtings and impugn the wisdom and the motives of the Creator himself. A boy's thirsty, delving little mind is never satisfied with your easy answer that "the ways of the Almighty are inscrutable." As this interview proceeded she realized--and to her chagrin--that there was something about this vandal that caused her a peculiar kind of restraint and self-consciousness--almost diffidence. Being distinctly a nervous person and gently irritated at her own self-consciousness, Miss Clement looked about the room, over the boy's head, with an expression somewhat more severe than the situation required. But his instincts of hospitality were not so easily suppressed. Pointing to a dish of fruit on a further table, he asked: "Won't you have an apple?" "No, I thank you." He seemed disappointed. Then as his eyes rested on a little music box that lay on the table beside him, he exclaimed, with enthusiasm: "You like good music?" In her own voice there was less enthusiasm as she answered, "Yes, I--think I--do." Miss Clement suddenly realized--as happens with nervous people--that she was annoyed by these foolish questions. Instead of replying she straightened up and looked first at the clock, then at the boy. She found him gazing at her earnestly, as if trying to read her thoughts. "This music box," he said, with signs of embarrassment, "plays five lovely tunes: The Last Rose of Summer, Hear Me, Norma, The Carnival of Ven----" "Not now," she interrupted. Had her host been an older man, with a knowledge of women--if such is possible--this unexpected change of manner would have been a warning. "It's four o'clock," she added hastily, and her smiles had vanished. "Are you the only person in the house?"