“Shall you grow up nasty?” she continued, trying to bring her stock of experience to bear on this new phenomenon.

“No, I sha’n’t!” he answered very decidedly.

“Shall you die?”

“No, not until I am old, old, old.”

“I am very glad:  I will take you for a pet, All my little animals get nasty, and my flowers have died, but I don’t care, now that you have come:  I think I shall like you best.”

“But I won’t be your pet,” said the boy, offended.

“Why not?” she asked, looking at him beseechingly.  “I should be very good to you;” and she smoothed his sleeve with her brown hand as if it were the fur of one of her late darlings.

“Who are you?” he demanded inquisitively.

“I am myself,” she innocently replied.

“What is your name?”

“I am Nellie.  Have you a name?” she eagerly went on.  “If you haven’t, I’ll give you a pretty one.  Let me see:  I will call you—­”

“You need not trouble yourself, thank you:  I have a name of my own, Miss Nellie.  I am Danby Overbeck.”

“Dan—­by—­o—­ver—­beck!” she repeated slowly.  “Why, you have an awful long name, Beck, for such a little fellow.”

“I am not little, and I will not have you call me Beck:  that is no name.”

“I forgot all but the last.  Don’t get nasty, please;” and she patted his arm soothingly.  “What does your nurse call you?”

“I am no baby to have a nurse,” he said disdainfully.

“You have no nurse?  Poor thing!  What do you do? who feeds you?”

“I feed myself.”

“Where do you live,” she asked, looking about curiously, as if she thought he had some kind of a nest near at hand.

“Oh, far away—­at the other side of the woods.”

“Won’t you come and live with me?  Do!”

“No indeed, gypsy:  I must go home.  See, the sun is almost down.  You had better go too:  your mother will be anxious.”

“I have no mother, and my flowers are all dead.  I wish you would be my pet—­I wish you would come with me;” and her lip trembled.

“My gracious, child! what would the old lady at home say?  Why, there would be an awful row.”

“Never mind, come,” she answered coaxingly, rubbing her head against his sleeve like a kitten.  “Come, I will love you so much.”

“You go home,” he said, patting her head, “and I will come again some day, and will bring you flowers.”

“The flowers are all dead,” she replied, shaking her head.

“I can make some grow.  Go now, run away:  let me see you off.”

She looked for a moment at this superior being, who could make flowers grow and could live without the care of a nurse, and then, obeying the stronger intelligence, she trotted off toward home.