Not for the world would she go through it again and have to begin French all over, even at "_J'ai, tu as, il a_." Yet, if it were certain she could be a boy-- He was too considerate to tell her that this was as good as impossible--that she quite lacked the qualities necessary for that.
Instead, he reassured her with the chivalrous fiction that he, at least, would like her as well as if she _were_ a boy.

And, indeed, as a girl, she was not wholly unsatisfactory.

True, she played "school" (of all things!) in preference to "wild animals," practised scales on the piano an hour every day, wore a sun-hat frequently--spite of which she was freckled--wore shoes and stockings on the hottest days, when one's feet are so hungry for the cool, springy turf, and performed other acts repugnant to a soul that has brought itself erect.

But she was fresh and dainty to look at, like an opened morning glory, with pretty frocks that the French lady whose name was Madmasel made her wear every day, and her eyes were much like certain flowers in the bed under the bay-window, with very long, black lashes that got all stuck together when she cried; and she made superb capital letters, far better than the little boy's, though she was a year younger.
Also, which was perhaps her chief charm, she could be made to believe that only he could protect her from the Gratcher, a monstrous thing, half beast, half human, which was often seen back of the house; sometimes flitting through the grape-arbour, sometimes coming out of the dark cellar, sometimes peering around corners.

It was a thing that went on enormous crutches, yet could always catch you if it saw you by daylight out of its right eye, its left being serviceable only at night, when, if you were wise, you kept in the house.