“Do you take a nap every day?” asked Bobby, curiously, as he and Polly drank their milk and ate the crisp crullers. “I s’pose girls like to do that kind of thing, but I’d rather read all night than waste time sleeping in the daylight. I’ve never known any girl very well except my sister. I’m afraid of them, they’re so queer.” “Oh, they’re not half so queer as boys, I’m sure!” asserted Polly, with much decision. “I guess if you knew the Higgins boys that I’ve been to school with, you’d say so. I never could get those boys to play house with me once! They said it wasn’t any fun.” “Well, ’tisn’t, you know,” said Bobby, without a moment’s hesitation. “Of course, nothing happens when you play house, no adventures--no accidents--no anything.” “No accidents!” echoed Polly, in amazement. “I should think it was a pretty dreadful accident to invite four dollies to tea (cut out of a newspaper, they were, beautiful ones, Uncle Blodgett did them for me), and find you had burned up every biscuit to a crisp while you were setting the table. I mean they had burned themselves up! Don’t you like to play any make-believes?” “Yes, I like some,” admitted the boy, frankly, “but you wouldn’t like my kind, and I call yours pretty slow.” “What kind of make-believes do you like best?” asked Polly, as she and the dreaded guest sat together in the library at dusk. Miss Pomeroy was entertaining Marm Hackett in the parlor, much to the old woman’s rage, she having desired a talk with the newcomer, for whom she had prepared a list of searching questions. “I like the kind of make-believes that are in books,” said the boy, staring into the fire. He sat on the hearth-rug with his legs crossed in a position of tantalizing comfort. Polly sat in a straight-backed chair and viewed him with envy. She would have liked so much to be beside him on the rug with her hands clasped over her knees and her chin resting on them. And he had not felt obliged to take any nap. She had heard him talking to Arctura while she lay on that hot bed. “‘Treasure Island’ is a mighty good make-believe,” remarked Bobby, after a short silence. “I shouldn’t have had any objections to living that story right along.” “I’ve never read it,” said Polly, with a little sigh. “I’ve never read much of anything till now. Is ‘Treasure Island’ as beautiful as the ‘Snow Queen’?” she asked, doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem as if it could be.” “Beautiful isn’t the word for it,” said Bobby, turning his spectacled eyes toward her for a moment. “It’s wild, and murderous in places, and it carries you along with it. So does ‘Kidnapped.’ That’s what you want of a book. I never can make up my mind whether I’d rather have been David Balfour or Napoleon. If I had my choice, I believe I’d have to draw lots.”