Then he walked by my side, quite silent for a minute, maybe more. I didn't know what had come over him. "Kitty," says he at last. "Yes," says I. "Kitty," says he, and stuck fast again, for all the world as if he'd got into a slough of despond. "Well," said I. "Kitty," says he a third time, and looked as red and sheepish as anything. "Yes," said I, for there was nothing else to be said. "Kit—ty," says he a fourth time, very slow, as if he didn't know how to get it out. And then all of a sudden I began to have a notion what was coming, and I didn't want it to come. "Oh, look there!" I cried out. "Where?" says he, and he stared all around. "There; those clouds," I said. "Oh, look! Aren't they funny? There's one just exactly like a big whale, and a cow running after it, and a mountain beyond. Oh, and a blue pond, and a lot of little fishes in the pond." "Kitty, do hear; it don't matter about the clouds," says he. "But you're not looking. Do look," cried I, rattling as fast as I could speak. "Look, it's the very image of a whale. Can't you see?" "No," says he, staring; "I don't see no whale, nor anything like a whale. There's only a lot of stupid clouds." "But clouds are not stupid," said I. "Not stupid at all. The clouds are made of water or snow. Father says so. That's where our water comes from. We should be in a nice taking if we never had any clouds, shouldn't we?" and I laughed at him, and ran up a bank to pick a daisy. "I don't know anything about the clouds, and I don't care," says Rupert. Which was true of him, and true of thousands, and a most amazing thing it is that men don't care to know more about the wonderful things they see every day of their lives. But they don't, and Rupert didn't. "I don't care," says he; "I want to talk about something else—something quite different." "Then you're not like me, Rupert," I said, sharp enough. "I should like to learn lots of things about the clouds. I want to know what makes them take such pretty shapes, and why the rain stops up there instead of coming down in buckets-full. And—oh dear, there's one of my pretty roses falling to bits. Isn't it a pity?" Rupert wasn't listening. He had on his sort of bull-dog look, and I knew it meant that he had made up his mind to say his say, and that say it he would, no matter all I could do to hinder. "It's getting late, and I must make haste home," says I. "No, Kitty," says he, and he spoke determined-like. "You must hear me;" and he clutched hold of my dress with one hand. "There's something I've got to tell you, and I've been trying the past month, and can't get it out." "Then don't get it out now; don't, Rupert," I said, stopping because I had to stop, for he stood still. There was nobody but our two selves within sight. "Don't say it, Rupert," I begged.