Jimmie stood in an agony of silent awkwardness, curving himself in
varying directions.

"Are you sorry?"

"Y-e-e-s."

"Well, tell her so."

Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. He stood a
moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from Betsy Dan's shoes to
her face, caught her glancing at him from behind her apron, and began,
"I-I-I'm (tchik! tchik) sor-ry," (tchik). Betsy Dan's look was too much
for the little chap's gravity.

A roar swept over the school-house. Even the grim dominie's face
relaxed.

"Go to your seat and behave yourself," said the master, giving Jimmie a
slight cuff. "Now, Margaret, let us go on."

Margaret's was the difficult verse. But to Margaret's quiet voice and
gentle heart, anything like shriek or battle-cry was foreign enough, so
with even tone, and unmodulated by any shade of passion, she read the
cry, "To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!" Nor was her voice to
be moved from its gentle, monotonous flow even by the battle-cry of
Bozzaris, "Strike! till the last armed foe expires!"

"Next," said the dominie, glad to get on with his task.