to my feet, and I flew like an anxious hen to my brood. One small
quarrel in the hall; very small, but it must be inquired into on the way
to the greater one. Mercedes McGafferty had taunted Jenny Crawhall with
being Irish. The fact that she herself had been born in Cork about three
years previous did not trouble her in the least. Jenny, in a voice
choked with sobs, and with the stamp of a tiny foot, was announcing
hotly that she was "NOT Irish, no sech a thing,--she was Plesberterian!"
I was not quite clear whether this was a theological or racial
controversy, but I settled it speedily, and they ran off together hand
in hand. I hastened to the steps. The yells had come from Joe Guinee and
Mike Higgins, who were fighting for the possession of a banana; a
banana, too, that should have been fought for, if at all, many days
before,--a banana better suited, in its respectable old age, to peaceful
consumption than the fortunes of war. My unexpected apparition had such
an effect that I might have been an avenging angel. The boys dropped the
banana simultaneously, and it fell to the steps quite exhausted, in such
a condition that whoever proved to be in the right would get but little
enjoyment from it.

"O my boys, my boys!" I exclaimed, "did you forget so soon? What shall
we do? Must Miss Kate follow you everywhere? If that is the only way in
which you can be good, we might as well give up trying. Must I watch you
to the corner every day, no matter how tired I am?"

Two grimy little shirt bosoms heaved with shame and anger; two pairs of
eyes hid themselves under protecting lids; two pairs of moist and
stained hands sought the shelter of charitable pockets,--then the cause
of war was declared by Mike sulkily.

"Joe Guinee hooked my bernanner."