“How old are you, Miss O’Hara?” the English teacher, Miss Dove, had said.

“I am fifteen, bless your heart, darling!” replied Kathleen.

“Don’t talk exactly like that,” said Miss Dove, who, in spite of herself, was attracted by the sweet voice and sweeter eyes.  “Say, ’I am fifteen, Miss Dove.’”

Kathleen made a grimace.  Her grimace was so comical that all the small girls in the class burst out laughing.  She was silent.

“Speak, dear,” said Miss Dove in a persuasive tone.

“Yes, darling, I’m trying to.”

“You mustn’t use affectionate words in school.”

“Oh, my heart!  How am I to bear it?” said Kathleen, and she clasped a white hand over that organ.

Miss Dove paused for a moment, and then decided that she would let the question in dispute go by for the present.  She began to question Kathleen as to her acquirements, and found that she must leave her with the younger children for the time being.  She then went on to attend to other duties.

Kathleen sat bolt-upright in the centre of the class.  It seemed absurd to see this tall, well-grown girl surrounded by tiny tots.  One of the tiny tots looked towards her.  Presently she thrust out a moist little hand, and out of the moisture produced a half-melted peppermint drop.  Just for a second Kathleen’s bright eyes fell upon the sweetmeat with disgust; then she took it up gingerly and popped it into her mouth.

“It’s golloptious,” she said, turning to the child, and then she drummed her fingers once more on the edge of the desk.  Presently she stooped down and whispered to this small girl: 

“I hate school; don’t you?”

“Y—­es,” was the timid reply.

“Let’s go out.”

“But I—­I can’t.”

“I must, then.  I have nothing to do; the lessons are deadly stupid.  Forgive me, girls; you are all blameless;” and the next moment she had left the room.

Half a moment later she was in the fresh air outside.  Her cheeks were hot, her hair in disorder, and her hand, where she had touched the peppermint, was sticky.”

“What would father say if he could see me now?” she thought.  “If Aunty O’Flynn was to look at her Kathleen!  Oh, why did they send me across the cold sea to a place of this sort—­a detestable place?  Oh, the fresh air is reviving.  I was born free, and Britons never, never will be slaves.  I can’t stay in that horrid room.  Oh, how long the morning is!”

Just then a teacher came out and beckoned to Kathleen.

“What are you doing outside, Miss O’Hara?  Come in immediately and return to your class.”

“I can’t dear,” replied Kathleen in a gentle tone.  “You are young, aren’t you?  You don’t look more than twenty.  Do you ever feel your heart beat wild, dear, and your spirits all in a sort of throb?  And did you, when you were like that, submit to being tied up in steel chains all round every bit of you?  Answer me:  did you?”