drawing them together, even at this early age.  No voice was like Mysie’s voice, no name like her name to him.  If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a spare piece of pencil Robert was happy; he’d gladly give her his only piece and forthwith proceed to borrow another for himself.  He saw that Mysie did certain things, used, for instance, to clean her slate with a bit of rag, and he instantly procured one, and this kept his jacket sleeve clean and whole.

  “Choose, choose wha’ ye’ll tak’,
  Wha’ ye’ll tak’, wha’ ye’ll tak’,
  Choose, choose wha’ ye’ll tak’,
  A laddie or a lassie.”

So sang the girls, as with hands joined they walked round in a ring, with Mysie, blushing and sweet, standing in the center—­a sweet, shy, little rosebud—­a joy in a cheap cotton frock.

“Come on, Mysie,” urged the girls, who had now come to a standstill with the finish of the song.  “Choose an’ dinna keep us waiting.”  But Mysie stood still, her little heart beating at a terrible rate, her breath coming in short, quick gasps, and a soft, glowing light of nervous intensity in her eyes.

“Oh, come on, Mysie Maitland,” cried one girl in hurt tones, “choose an’ dinna spoil the game.”

“Come on,” urged another, “the whistle will be blawn the noo.”

“She’s feart,” said one, “an’ she disna need, for we a’ ken that she wants to choose Bob Sinclair.”

Something sang uproariously in Bob’s ears at this blunt way of stating what they all felt; a hot wave surged over him, and his whole being seemed to fill with the energy of a giant.  He shifted uneasily, his senses all acutely alert to pick up even Mysie’s faint gasp of shame, as the hot blood suffused her face.  Would she choose him before all these others?  He hoped she wouldn’t, and he tried to summon a smile to hide his uneasiness.  Still Mysie hesitated.  She wanted to choose Robert, but if she did, perhaps the other boys and girls would tease them afterwards.

“Oh, come on, Mysie.  It’s no’ fair,” cried one of the girls, getting more and more impatient.  “Choose an’ be done wi’ it.  It’s only a game.”

Thus urged Mysie stepped forward, and, excited out of all judgment, her face covered with shame, her heart thumping and galloping, she grabbed the first hand she saw, which happened to be Peter Rundell’s, and something seemed to darken the day for all.  Robert, now that he had not been chosen, felt murder in his heart.  His body felt charged with energy, a flood of passion poured over him and he lost all discretion.  He saw only Peter’s shining collar, his fine boots and good clothes, and above all the smile, half of shame, half of triumph, upon his face.  In passing Peter staggered against Robert, who let drive with his fist, and there was a fight before anyone really knew what had happened.

“What are ye shovin’ at?  Can ye no’ watch folk’s toes?” And he was on Peter like a whirlwind.  There was the hatred of years between them, and they pummeled each other heartily.