Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. He stood a moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from Betsy Dan's shoes to her face, caught her glancing at him from behind her apron, and began, “I-I-I'm (tchik! tchik) sor-ry,” (tchik). Betsy Dan's look was too much for the little chap's gravity.
A roar swept over the school-house. Even the grim dominie's face relaxed.
“Go to your seat and behave yourself,” said the master, giving Jimmie a slight cuff. “Now, Margaret, let us go on.”
Margaret's was the difficult verse. But to Margaret's quiet voice and gentle heart, anything like shriek or battle-cry was foreign enough, so with even tone, and unmodulated by any shade of passion, she read the cry, “To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!” Nor was her voice to be moved from its gentle, monotonous flow even by the battle-cry of Bozzaris, “Strike! till the last armed foe expires!”
“Next,” said the dominie, glad to get on with his task.
The master breathed freely, when, alas for his hopes, the minister spoke up.
“But, Margaret, do you think Bozzaris cheered his men in so gentle a voice as that?”
Margaret smiled sweetly, but remained silent, glad to get over the verse.
“Wouldn't you like to try it again?” suggested the minister.
Margaret flushed up at once.