long ranks, one hung back here and there to ten who put themselves forward, like boys who know the answer in a class.
Tom had forgotten Daintree, and plucked the matron by the sleeve; he had told her it was no use, he could never go through that, when the woman showed she was not listening to a word. He followed her fixed gaze; and there was the freckled convict importuning an upstanding young woman, who tossed her black mop, and would have nothing to say to him.
“Well, look at that!” exclaimed the matron. “There’s a girl who hasn’t been in the first class a week, and she gets an offer and turns up her nose at it. May she never get another!”
Tom had looked; and it was Peggy O’Brien, with her hair cut short like a boy’s.
It appeared that the man would not take his answer, he was at her still, and Tom advanced between the lines. “One at a time—it’s not your turn!” cried out the matron; but at that moment a deep flush dyed Peggy’s face, her neighbours laughed derisively, and Tom rushed in amid the protests of the matron and a ribald outcry from the mothers in the shade.
“It’s Tom!” gasped Peggy.
“What’s he saying?” cried Tom.
“Never you mind,” said the man. “First come, first served; you wait till I’ve done!”
Tom ignored him and looked to Peggy.
“He won’t take ‘no,’” she said; “an’ I’d have no thruck wid ’m to save me immorthal soul!”
“Will you with me, Peggy? Will you with me?”
The girl went white to the lips; he took her hand, and eyed his fellow, whose freckles jumped out through
