“Why, no!” said Tom, “how could I be?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Professor; “but people are sometimes. And have you a secret connected with that fat, red-faced brute, Blodgett, whom you call the Blush Rose?”
“Well, yes,” said Tom: “it’s about a photograph.”
“Let us see this photograph,” said the Professor. “Explain!”
“Why, it’s a surprise for Ned, don’t you see?” said Tom. “It’s the proof picture of me in the last theatricals. See, there I am as Marton, the Pride of the Market.”
“What a mistake nature made about your sex, Tom!” said the Professor. “You dear little peasant girl, put yourself away directly; and now take my advice: show it to Ned; it will make him ashamed of his folly, and will prevent any further angry words between you. It is hard to quarrel, and so you will think some day, though now you find it so easy. There, put it away; for I hear Ned’s footsteps on the stairs! Come in, Ned! Why! what has happened?”
For Ned, standing in the open door-way, his perverse moodiness all gone, wore an expression the Professor had never seen before.
“Happened!” said Ned. “Something to live for, something to die for. We know now that we have a country. Haven’t you heard the news?”