"Please, teacher," he lisped, "is Mr. Moore going to sing for us?"
"Sure as life," said Moore, his vanity tickled.
A murmur of approval came from the children. The young Irishman had amused them with his fine voice more than once, extracting in return from their evident enjoyment quite as much pleasure as his music afforded them.
"What shall it be, teacher?" he asked, turning to Bessie.
"Oh, anything but one of those odes from Anacreon, Tom. They are simply terrible."
"But you read them all."
"I blush to admit it," answered the girl, frowning at his lack of tact in recalling such an indiscreet proceeding.
"Ah, Bessie," he murmured tenderly, "I'd admit anything for the sake of seeing the roses steal in and out of your dear cheeks. Why, it is like watching the sunset sweeping over the clouds in the west on a summer evening."
"Sing, Thomas Moore," commanded the girl, but a softer look came into her eyes as she settled comfortably back in her chair to listen.
"I 'd like to pass my life singing to you, Bessie."