“I sure hope it ain’t like any I’ll ever have,” said Nancy, so naively that the man with the crutch laughed.  He looked at her keenly.

“Go over and see the baby lion,” he suggested; and he added, smiling, “It’s got red hair.”

“It can afford to have red hair, so long as it’s a lion,” said Nancy, sturdily; and she added, reflectively:  “I’d any day rather have me a lion-child with red hair, than a monkey-child with any kind of hair.”

Somehow that blunt comment pleased Mr. Champneys.  When he took his charge back to their hotel that evening, it was with something like a glimmering of real hope in his heart.

The next day, as he joined her at lunch, he said casually: 

“I had a message from my nephew this morning.  He will be here in a few days.”

She turned pale; the hand that held her fork began to tremble.

“Is it—­soon?” she asked, almost unaudibly.

“The sooner the better.  I think we’d better have it here, in our sitting-room, say at noon on Wednesday.  Don’t be seared,” he added, kindly.  “All you have to do is just to stand still and say, ’I will,’ at the right moment.”

“An’—­an’ then?”

“My nephew’s boat sails at about two.  He drives to the pier.  You and I go to our apartment, until our own house is ready for us.  You see how nicely it’s all arranged.”

“I ain’t—­I mean, I don’t have to see him nor talk to him before, do I?” She looked panic-stricken.  “Because I won’t!  I can’t!  There’s some things I just can’t stummick, an’ meetin’ that feller before the very last minute I got to do it, is one of ’em.”

“Of course, of course!  You sha’n’t meet him until the very last minute.  Though he’s a mighty nice chap, my nephew Peter is—­a mighty nice chap.”

“He must be!  We’re both of us a mighty nice pair, ain’t we?  Him goin’ one way an’ me goin’, another way, all by our lonesomes!”

“The arrangement does not suit you?” he inquired politely.

“Oh, it suits me all right,” she said, after a moment.  “I said I’d do what I was told, an’ I’ll do it—­I ain’t the sort backs down.  But I ain’t none too anxious to get any better acquainted with this feller than what I am right now.  I ain’t stuck on men, noways.”

“You are only sixteen, my dear,” he reminded her.

“Women know as much about men when they’re sixteen as they do when they’re sixty,” said she, coldly.  “There ain’t but one thing to believe about ’em—­an’ that is, you best not believe any of ’em.”

“I hope,” said he, stiffly, “that you have no just cause to disbelieve me, Nancy?  Have I been unkind to you?”

“It ain’t me you’re either kind or yet unkind to,” she told him.  “It’s Aunt Milly’s niece:  you’re a little crazy on that head, I guess.  It’s Aunt Milly’s niece you aim to marry to that nephew of yours.  If I was just me myself without bein’ any kin to her, you wouldn’t wipe your old shoes on me.”  She gave him a clear, level look.  “Let’s don’t have any lies about this thing,” she begged.  “I’m a poor hand for lies.  I know, and I want you should know I know, and deal with me honest.”