“Will you, May—will you give me the rose?”
The next moment the little bud was in the hand of the transported Harry, accompanied with a look of such innocent, confiding love, as made his heart dance with rapture.
Was there ever in after life a moment of such pure and exquisite happiness as then filled the hearts of the lovers!
But the rose-bud, the poor rose-bud, bitterly did it rue the change from its lovely resting-place to the great hand of the school-master—besides coming very near being crushed to pieces between that and the dainty little fingers of May as she placed it therein!
Well, it must have been a puzzling sum indeed to keep the master so long at May Lillie’s desk! and taking advantage of his inattention, the mischievous scholars carried on a pretty little by-play of their own—there was tittering in corners, and whispering behind torn covers—and soft, soft tiptoeing from one seat to another, and little paper pellets flying like hail-stones from side to side. Ah, dear, happy children—there is no danger—you might knock the master’s head off, and he would never know it!
“Young ladies—children—I give you a holyday,” quoth Harry, rapping his desk with the dread ferule, insignia of his power.
“A holyday—huzza—huzza—a holyday!” shouted the girls and boys, rushing from the school-room.
But the older girls looked slyly at each other, and then at the blushing May.
“Look—look!” exclaimed half-a-dozen in a breath. “The master is walking home with May Lillie!”