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“My word! You’re a pert young piece for your size!” remarked the horrible man; and though I could have boxed his ears (which stood out exactly like the handles on an urn), I felt my own tingle, because it was true, what he said: I was a pert young piece. Holding my own at home, and lots of other things in life (for sixteen years of life seem fearfully long if they’re all you’ve got behind you), had made me pert, and I didn’t love myself for it, any more than a porcupine can be really fond of his own quills. I couldn’t bear, somehow, that the man with the nice eyes should be hearing me called a “pert piece,” and thinking me one. Quite a smart repartee came into my head, but a heavy feeling in my heart kept me from putting it into words; and Nebuchadnezzar went grunting on: “I know as much about old lace as any man in thi