Her fresh young eyes came between me and my book, and there was an end of Virgil.
"O love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a body Gang aboot his business." I was wretched away from her, and only less wretched in her presence.
The special cause of my woe was this: I was simply a little boy to Miss Glentworth.

I knew it.

I bewailed it.

I ground my teeth and wept in secret over the fact.

If I had been aught else in her eyes would she have smoothed my hair so carelessly, sending an electric shock through my whole system?
Would she have walked with me, hand in hand, for hours in the old garden, and once when I lay on the sofa, my head aching with love and mortification, would she have stooped down and kissed me if I hadn't been a little boy?
How I despised little boys! How I hated one particular little boy--too little to be loved! I smile over this very grimly even now.