and she smiled upon them.

"I'll niver be makin' Tim's b'ys weak-spirited by lettin' 'em
tittle-tattle of what can't be helped," she thought.

"Now, b'ys, heads up and do your bist!" she said the next morning as she
went to her work.

But it was one thing to hold up their heads at the shanty, and quite
another to hold them up on the noisy, swarming campus where they knew
nobody, and where the ill-bred bullies of the school felt free to jeer
and gibe at their poor clothing and their shy, awkward ways.

"Patrick O'Callaghan!" yelled Jim Barrows derisively.

It was recess and the campus was overflowing with boys and girls, but
Pat was alone. "Just over from the 'ould coonthry'," he continued. "You
can tell by his clothes. He got wet a-comin', and just see how they've
shrunk!"

The overgrown, hulking fellow lounged closer to the tall and slender
Irish boy, followed by the rough set that acknowledged him as a leader.
Some measured the distance from the ends of Pat's jacket sleeves to his
wrists, while others predicted the number of days that must elapse
before his arms burst through the sleeves.

The spirit of the country-bred boy quailed before this coarse abuse,
which he knew not how to resent. He glanced about him, but no way of
escape offered. He was hemmed in. And then the bell struck. Recess was
over. He thought of his brothers in different grades from himself,