Stepping around a projecting rock close at hand, Amberley came upon a pretty scene. On a wide level sunny space, where young grass was already springing, stood a little figure in blue, with yellow hair flying about in the breeze; a tiny hand filled with grass, held out toward the doubtful yet covetous Simon Jr. The child stood perfectly still, her square little back turned to her new observer, while the calf stumped cautiously toward her. At a safe distance he stopped and sniffed at the tiny hand, then kicked up his heels and pranced away again. The little drama repeated itself several times, the child standing always motionless, with extended arm, and calling upon "Bossie" in enticing tones to come. Won over at last by her constancy,--or by his own greed,--"Bossie" ventured near enough to snatch the proffered tidbit; then off he scampered, in ungrateful haste, mouthing the delicate morsel. A sigh of relief and satisfaction went up from the little figure, while one small hand gravely rubbed and kneaded the arm which had so pluckily maintained its uncomfortable position. Amberley approached with his short-stemmed daisy. "How do you do, little girl?" he inquired in his most polite manner. "Would you like a daisy?" "Yes," was the reply, spoken with a slight lisp. "You are very good to feed Simon," Amberley proceeded, quite set at ease by the gracious acceptance of his offering. "Yes;" said the child once more, this time with a rising inflection. "Simon is my calf, you know," Amberley went on. "Here, Simon, come along." Simon Jr., was already approaching, with an eye to business, and even as his master spoke, he had got his nose into a certain wide, baggy pocket in the old army trousers, and was poking it about in very familiar fashion. "Wait a minute, Simon," said Amberley, drawing himself gently away. "Here, little girl, you take a bit of the salt in your hand and he'll come for it." "Yes," came the assenting voice; and Simon Jr., once convinced that the pocket was closed to him, approached the child with easy confidence, and not only devoured the proffered salt, but continued to lick the grimy little palm when it was quite bare of that pleasing stimulant. Then the child laughed, a queer little short, grown-up laugh, and declared: "I like Simon." "So do I," said Amberley, casting about for some new blandishment. "Let's come up to the shanty and draw a picture of him." "Yes," the little sphinx replied. Amberley held out his hand, with a poignant dread lest she should refuse to take it; a thrill of pleasure, almost as poignant, went up his arm and so on to his heart, as the tiny hand rested in his own. "What is your name?" he asked. They were rounding the big boulder and beginning the short ascent to the cabin. "Eliza Christie, and I'm six years old," she replied, tugging the while at his hand, to help herself over a rough place. Then,--"What's yours?" she asked. "Simon Amberley."