“Young ladies, attention, if you please!”

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

“Miss March, come to the desk.”

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

“Don’t take all.” whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose.  Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” stammered Amy.

“Bring the rest immediately.”

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

“You are sure there are no more?”

“I never lie, sir.”

“So I see.  Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window.”

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.  Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes.  This—­this was too much.  All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous “Hem!” and said, in his most impressive manner . . .

“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago.  I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never break my word.  Miss March, hold out your hand.”

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.  She was rather a favorite with ‘old Davis’, as, of course, he was called, and it’s my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss.  That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit’s fate.

“Your hand, Miss March!” was the only answer her mute appeal received, and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm.  They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her.  For the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.