"Don't you remember? But of course you didn't think so yourself, and I daresay thought me a little spitfire. You used to pinch me slyly and kick me, and laugh when you hurt me. I wonder I have not the bruises to this day. And have you forgotten that time I flew at you and boxed your ears?"
"I wonder I can have forgotten," he laughed.
"Yes, you had snared a blackbird and were pulling out its feathers, and mad at the sight I rushed at you and struck you, and you let it go in your surprise. I hated you for that, Gerard, I did indeed."
"Serve me right, too."
"And you called me such names."
"Not Gabrielle?" he interposed.
"No, and not mademoiselle," she retorted laughing. "But cat, and beast, and fury, and everything, and you pulled my hair."
"That hair?" he asked, laughing again. "What sacrilege."
"Yes, this hair," she nodded gaily. "Oh, it is no wonder that when they told me you were coming to—well, you know why—that I was frightened lest you should be just an older edition of that cruel little ugly horror."
"Ugly, too?"
"Yes, ugly. You were not a bit good-looking even for a boy. I should never have guessed you were the same;" and then she put her finger to her lip in some dismay as if to check herself.
"I think I am glad to have disappointed you."
"And do you think I have changed?" she asked, with a challenge in her eyes.
"You are older."
"What, in fifteen years? How strange!"
"Is it fifteen years since you saw that pleasant youth you have described?"
