The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted once more.

Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.

“Don’t Mr. Rankin, or—­or anyone—­play with you?” she asked.

Ben shook his head.

“All right, then,” she said obligingly, “I’ll show you.”

With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet in diameter.

“You can’t cross that place in there,” she said.

The boy looked at the bare ground critically.  No visible barrier presented itself to his vision.

“Why not?” he asked.

Florence made a gesture of disapproval.  “Because you can’t,” she explained.  Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added, “Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there.  Anyway, you can’t cross!”

Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a moment doubtfully.

“Now,” she went on, “I stand right here close to the line, and you take the handkerchief.”  She produced a dainty little kerchief with a “B” embroidered in the corner.  “Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can before I touch you.  If you get clear around and catch me before I notice you—­you can kiss me.  Do you see?”

Ben could see.

“All right, then.”  And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.

The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct.  The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey.  His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face.  Straight ahead went Ben around the circle—­that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something—­back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.

“Here’s your handkerchief,” he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen.  “You’re it.”

“Oh, dear!” she said, in mock despair; “you dropped it the first time, didn’t you?”

Ben agreed to the statement.

An unaccountable lull followed.  In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.

“I didn’t suppose you’d do that the first time,” said the little girl.  “Papa never does.”

The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.

Again there was a lull.

“Well,” suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.

Ben began to feel uncomfortable.  He had a premonition that all was not well.

“You’re it, ain’t you?” he hesitated at last.

This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him.  The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair.  Her big brown eyes flashed fire.