“But no one will insult her, my boy,” said Mrs Shingle, looking at him admiringly.
“But people do, and have,” cried Tom, grinding his teeth. “She has told me so. Because she goes with a parcel through the streets, every unmanly rascal seems to consider she is fair game for him; and—hang it, aunt, I can’t help it!—if any scoundrel does it again, I’ll half kill him!”
“Oh, Tom, Tom!” whispered Jessie, as he strode up and down, with the veins in his forehead starting, and then uttered a sob.
“I can’t help it,” he cried; “it’s more than a fellow can bear. I’m not ashamed to own it. I love Jessie dearly; and if she’ll be my little wife I don’t care what anybody says. Poor girl, indeed! Where’s the lady in our set that can stand before her?”
“Not many, I know,” said Mrs Shingle proudly.
“She can’t help uncle being poor, and I can’t help my step-father being rich. Come, aunt, you’ll let me go?”
“I mustn’t.”
“Then it’s because that brother of mine has been here,” cried Tom angrily.
“No, no, no!” cried Mrs Shingle; “indeed it isn’t, my dear boy. But I mustn’t allow it—I mustn’t indeed. Your father will never forgive me.”
“Jessie dear,” cried the young man, taking her hand, “you know I love you.”