"Mack'rel! "Macker—el! Fine, ladies—fresh, ladies— and bellies as big as bishops'—Mack—er—el!"
It was Danny Fayle with a board on his head containing his last instalment of the season's mackerel. When the two street-venders came together they stopped.
"Aw now, the fresh you're looking this morning, Ruby veg—as fresh as a dewdrop, my chree!"
The little one lifted her eyes and laughed. Then she plunged her hand into her basket and brought out a bunch of wild roses.
"That's for you, Danny," she said.
"Och, for me is it now? Aw, and is it for me it is?" said Danny, with wondering eyes. "The clean ruined it would be in half a minute, though, at the likes of me, Ruby veg. Keep it for yourself, woman." Louder: "Mack'rel—fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—Macker-el!" Then lower "Aw now, the sweet and tidy they'd be lookin' in your own breast, my chree—the sweet extraordinary!"
The child looked up and smiled, looked down and pondered: then half reluctantly, half coquettishly, fixed the flowers in her bosom.
"Danny, I love you," she said, simply.
The object of Ruby's affection blushed violently and was silent.
"And so does Sissy," added the little one.
"Mona?" asked Danny, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth.
"Yes, and mama too."
Danny's face, which had begun to brighten, suddenly lost its sunshine. His lower lip was lagging wofully.
