“Ben Blair,” she flamed, “you’re a ’fraid cat!” Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting.  With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth.  “A ’fraid cat, ’fraid cat, and I hate you!”

Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl.  The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult.  Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face grew very white.

“What am I afraid of?” he asked steadily.

Defiant still, the girl held her ground.

“Afraid of what?” she jeered.  “You’re afraid of everything!  ’Fraid cats always are!”

“But what?” pressed the boy.  “Tell me something I’m afraid of.”

Florence glanced about her.  The tall roof of the barn caught her vision.

“You wouldn’t dare jump off the roof there, for one thing,” she ventured.

Ben looked up.  The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and the earth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate.  At the north end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort of inclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb.  Half-way up he lost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he said nothing.  The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-pole without accident.  Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her.  Instead, he raised himself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, and jumped.

That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence.  In a sort of vision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozen ground,—­and all through her fault!  She shut her eyes, and clasped her hands over her face.

A few seconds passed, bringing with them no further sound, and she slowly opened her fingers.  Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing erect before her.  There was a smear of dust upon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon his cheek, which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt.  From beneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers, deliberate and unsmiling.

As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition passed.  In an indefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation of disappointment,—­a feeling of being deprived of something which was her due.  She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew.  A moment so the children faced each other.

“Do you still think I’m afraid?” asked the boy at last.

Again the hot color flamed beneath the brown skin.

“Pooh!” said the girl, “that was nothing!” She tossed her head in derision.  “Anyone could do that!”