“I am going to make a New Year’s call,” replied Beau Bobby.
“So am I,” said Beau Philip, laughing. “We may meet again. Good-by, little Beau!”
“Good-by, big Beau!” said Bobby, seriously, and they walked off in different directions.
Beau Philip went to call on a beautiful young lady, to whom he wished to give his rose; but so many other people were calling on her at the same time that he could only say “good-morning!” to her, and then stand in a corner, pulling his moustache and wishing that the others would go. There were so many roses in the room, bowls and vases and jars of them, that he thought she would not care for his single blossom, so he put it in his buttonhole; but it gave him no pleasure whatever.
Beau Bobby trotted away on his short legs till he came to a poor street, full of tumble-down cottages.
He stopped before one of them and knocked at the door. It was opened by a motherly looking Irish woman, who looked as if she had just left the washtub, as, indeed, she had.
“Save us!” she cried, “is it yersilf, Master Bobby? Come in, me jewel, and warm yersilf by the fire! It’s mortal cowld the day.”
“Oh, I’m not cold, thank you!” said Bobby. “But I will come in. Would you—would you like a rose, Mrs. Flanagan? I have brought this rose for you. And I wish you a Happy New Year. And thank you for washing my shirts so nicely.”
This was a long speech for Beau Bobby, who was apt to be rather silent; but it had a wonderful effect on Mrs. Flanagan. She grew very red as she took the rose, and the tears came into her eyes.
“Ye little angil!” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. “Look at the lovely rose! For me, is it? And who sint ye wid it, honey?”