“He’s Amos Burr’s boy,” explained Bernard Battle with a grin.  “He lives ’long our road.  I saw him hoeing potatoes day before yesterday.  He’s got freckles enough to tan a sheepskin!”

In the midst of the laugh which followed Nicholas stood awkwardly, shifting his bare feet.  His face was scarlet, and he fingered in desperation the ragged brim of his hat.

“I reckon they’re my freckles,” he said doggedly.

“And I reckon you can keep ’em,” retorted Bernard, mimicking his tone.  “We ain’t going to steal ’em.  I say, Eugie, here’re some freckles for sale!”

The dark little girl, who was putting up her books in one corner, looked up and shook her head.

“Let me alone!” she replied shortly, and returned to her work, tugging at the straps with both hands.  Dudley Webb—­a handsome, upright boy, well dressed in a dark suit and linen shirt—­lounged over as he munched a sandwich.

He looked at Nicholas from head to foot, and his gaze was returned with stolid defiance.  Nicholas did not flinch, but for the first time he felt ashamed of his ugliness, of his coarse clothes, of his briar-scratched legs, of his freckles, and of the unalterable colour of his hair.  He wished with all his heart that he were safely in the field with his father, driving the one-horse harrow across upturned furrows.  He didn’t want to learn anything any more.  He wanted only to get away.

“He’s common,” said Dudley at last, throwing a crust of bread through the open window.  “He’s as common as—­as dirt.  I heard mother say so—­”

“Father says he’s uncommon,” returned Tom doubtfully, turning his honest eyes on Nicholas again.  “He told Mr. Graves that he was a most uncommon boy.”

“Oh, well, you can play with him if you like,” rejoined Dudley resolutely, “but I shan’t.  He’s old Amos Burr’s son, anyway, who never wore a whole shirt in his life.”

“He had on one yesterday,” said Bernard Battle impartially.  “I saw it.  It was just made and hadn’t been washed.”

Nicholas looked up stubbornly.  “You let my father alone!” he exclaimed, spurred by the desire to resent something and finding it easier to fight for another than himself.  “You let my father alone, or I’ll make you!”

“I’d like to see you!” retorted Dudley wrathfully, and Nicholas had squared up for the first blow, when before his swimming gaze a defender intervened.

“You jest let him alone!” cried a voice, and the flutter of a blue cotton skirt divided Dudley from his adversary.  “You jest let him alone.  If you call him common I’ll hit you, an’—­an’ you can’t hit me back!”

“Eugie, you ought to be—­” began Bernard, but she pushed the combatants aside with decisive thrusts of her sunburned little hand, and planted herself upon the threshold, her large, black eyes glowing like shaded lamps.

“He wan’t doin’ nothin’ to you, and you jest let him be.  He’s goin’ to tote my books home, an’ you shan’t touch him.  I reckon I know what’s common as well as you do—­an’ he ain’t—­he ain’t common.”