"She's not," says Tommy, glowering at him. "Father says she's an angel, and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude!"
"'Twas after he made her cry about something," says Mabel, lifting her little flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of her brother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and then father got sorry—oh!—dreadful sorry—and he said she was an angel, and she said——"
"Oh, Mabel!" says Joyce, weakly, "you know you oughtn't to say such——"
"Well, 'twas your fault, 'twas all about you," says Tommy, defiantly. "Why don't you come home? Father says you ought to come, and mammy says she doesn't know which of 'em it'll be; and father says it won't be any of them, and—what's it all about?" turning a frankly inquisitive little face up to hers. "They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of 'em it will be."
"Yes, an' is it jints?" demands Mabel, who probably means giants, and not cold meats.
"I don't know what she means," says Miss Kavanagh, coldly.
"I say, you two," says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like to run a race? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at the end of the hill, and——"
"She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly," says Tommy.
"Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabel can outrun you down the hill."
"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute."