David stopped whistling "Garry Owen," and proceeded to execute a most
exquisite performance of "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning." Kathleen
trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. David was now whistling right into
her room "The Wearing of the Green." Kathleen flung down her pen, making
a splash on the paper.

"Go away," she called out. "What are you doing there?"

"The outside of this door doesn't belong to you," called David, "and if
I like to whistle through the keyhole you can't prevent me;" and he
began "Garry Owen" again.

Kathleen rushed to the door and flung it open. The tears were still wet
on her cheeks.

"Can't you guess what you are doing?" she said. "You are stabbing
me--stabbing me. Oh! oh! oh!" and she burst into violent sobs. David
took her hand.

"Come, little Irish colleen," he said. "Come along downstairs. I am
going to be chummy with you. Don't be so lonely. Give Alice her room;
one-half of it is hers, and she wants to dress to go out."

"Let her take it all," sobbed Kathleen. "I am most miserable. Oh, Garry
Owen, Garry Owen! Oh, Land of the Shamrock! Oh, my broken heart!"

She laid her head on David's shoulder and went on sobbing. David felt
quite bashful. There was nothing for it but to take out his big and not
too clean handkerchief and wipe her tears away.