It was in this year, or a little earlier, that he began to take an interest in girls.  He had from the first a keen eye for the beautiful among them; and, being good-looking and magnetic himself, it was not difficult for him to attract the sympathetic interest of those in whom he was interested.  A twelve-year old girl, Patience Barlow, who lived further up the street, was the first to attract his attention or be attracted by him.  Black hair and snapping black eyes were her portion, with pretty pigtails down her back, and dainty feet and ankles to match a dainty figure.  She was a Quakeress, the daughter of Quaker parents, wearing a demure little bonnet.  Her disposition, however, was vivacious, and she liked this self-reliant, self-sufficient, straight-spoken boy.  One day, after an exchange of glances from time to time, he said, with a smile and the courage that was innate in him:  “You live up my way, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied, a little flustered—­this last manifested in a nervous swinging of her school-bag—­“I live at number one-forty-one.”

“I know the house,” he said.  “I’ve seen you go in there.  You go to the same school my sister does, don’t you?  Aren’t you Patience Barlow?” He had heard some of the boys speak her name.  “Yes.  How do you know?”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” he smiled.  “I’ve seen you.  Do you like licorice?”

He fished in his coat and pulled out some fresh sticks that were sold at the time.

“Thank you,” she said, sweetly, taking one.

“It isn’t very good.  I’ve been carrying it a long time.  I had some taffy the other day.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” she replied, chewing the end of hers.

“Don’t you know my sister, Anna Cowperwood?” he recurred, by way of self-introduction.  “She’s in a lower grade than you are, but I thought maybe you might have seen her.”

“I think I know who she is.  I’ve seen her coming home from school.”

“I live right over there,” he confided, pointing to his own home as he drew near to it, as if she didn’t know.  “I’ll see you around here now, I guess.”

“Do you know Ruth Merriam?” she asked, when he was about ready to turn off into the cobblestone road to reach his own door.

“No, why?”

“She’s giving a party next Tuesday,” she volunteered, seemingly pointlessly, but only seemingly.

“Where does she live?”

“There in twenty-eight.”

“I’d like to go,” he affirmed, warmly, as he swung away from her.

“Maybe she’ll ask you,” she called back, growing more courageous as the distance between them widened.  “I’ll ask her.”

“Thanks,” he smiled.

And she began to run gayly onward.

He looked after her with a smiling face.  She was very pretty.  He felt a keen desire to kiss her, and what might transpire at Ruth Merriam’s party rose vividly before his eyes.