“Scared!  Why?”

“I am not used to girls except my sisters.”

She laughed and answered: 

“And I am not used to heroes.  I am sure you can not be so scared as I am, but I rather enjoy it.  I like to be scared—­a little.  This is so different.”

“I like you,” he declared with a laugh.

“I feared you would not like an English girl.  So many North Americans hate England.”

“The English have been hard on us.”

“What do you mean?”

“They send us governors whom we do not like; they make laws for us which we have to obey; they impose hard taxes which are not just and they will not let us have a word to say about it.”

“I think it is wrong and I’m going to stand up for you,” the girl answered.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“In London.  I am an English girl, but please do not hate me for that.  I want to do what is right and I shall never let any one say a word against Americans without taking their part.”

“That’s good,” the boy answered.  “I’d love to go to London.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“It’s a long way off.”

“Do you like good-looking girls?”

“I’d rather look at them than eat.”

“Well, there are many in London.”

“One is enough,” said Jack.

“I’d love to show them a real hero.”

“Don’t call me that.  If you would just call me Jack Irons I’d like it better.  But first you’ll want to know how I behave.  I am not a fighter.”

“I am sure that your character is as good as your face.”

“Gosh!  I hope it ain’t quite so dark colored,” said Jack.

“I knew all about you when you took my hand and helped me on the pony—­or nearly all.  You are a gentleman.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you a Presbyterian?”

“No—­Church of England.”

“I was sure of that.  I have seen Indians and Shakers, but I have never seen a Presbyterian.”

When the sun was low and the company ahead were stopping to make a camp for the night, the boy and girl dismounted.  She turned facing him and asked: 

“You didn’t mean it when you said that I was good-looking—­did you?”

The bashful youth had imagination and, like many lads of his time, a romantic temperament and the love of poetry.  There were many books in his father’s home and the boy had lived his leisure in them.  He thought a moment and answered: 

“Yes, I think you are as beautiful as a young doe playing in the water-lilies.”

“And you look as if you believed yourself,” said she.  “I am sure you would like me better if I were fixed up a little.”

“I do not think so.”

“How much better a boy’s head looks with his hair cut close like yours.  Our boys have long hair.  They do not look so much like—­men.”

“Long hair is not for rough work in the bush,” the boy remarked.