"How do you like teaching?" asked Bessie, mischievously, as Moore returned.

"Fine," he said. "Fine, and it's I that pays the fines, little limbs of Satan."

"Remember, you are speaking of my pupils, Mr. Moore," she said threateningly.

"All right," said Moore, "little limbs of Bessie d.y.k.e!"

"Tom!"

"I did n't mean it that way, my dear. Far be it from me to make such indelicate remarks intentionally."

"I am not so sure," said Bessie, suspiciously.

"I did n't think what I was saying, Bessie."

"Do you always say what you think?"

"Do you want me to be arrested?" demanded Moore. "I conceal my thoughts almost as often as you do, mavourneen."

"You can omit that 'Mavourneen,'" said Bessie, refusing to be so soon cajoled into good humor. "I 'm not to be blarneyed so easily."

"Oh," said Moore, "it's a terrible thing to be haunted by a girl's face."

"Is it?" asked Bessie, mollified.

"I should think so," responded Moore. "I can't work for thinking of one."

"Is her name 'Laziness'?"

"You 'll get no more information on the subject from me. Do you know, Bessie, I have half made up my mind not to go back to Dublin at all?"

"No? Where else would you go, Tom?"

"To London," announced Moore, dramatically. "To London, Bessie, and once there I 'll take Dame Fortune by the throat and strangle the hussy till she gives me what I deserve."

"Ah," cried Bessie, "that would be splendid, Tom!"

"I 'd go to-morrow only I dare n't leave you, darlin', for fear you will be stolen from me in my absence."

"What do you mean?" asked Bessie, looking at him in surprise.

"As though you did not know, Bessie!" answered Moore, rising to his feet. "I mean this Sir Percival Lovelace, who is seen so often in your company of late. Lord Brooking's friend. Don't I know what he is after when I see a great gentleman like him, the odor of Court still in his ruffles, walking and talking with a pretty bit of a school-teacher like you?"

Bessie flushed a little, but her tone was sad instead of angry when she answered:

"Tom, have you no faith in me?"

"Well, it is precious little I have in Sir Percival," he replied, turning away angrily, "and the less you have the better it will be for you."

Bessie's eyes twinkled maliciously. Here was her chance to pay her lover back for some of the plaguements he had practised upon her.

"You don't like Sir Percival?" said she, calmly.

"Not I," said Moore. "I see through his fine manners easy enough."

"He says I would make a good actress," continued Bessie, as though flattered by the idea.

Moore bit his lip in anger, but spoke calmly enough when he answered:

"He did n't say you would make a good wife?"

It was Bessie's turn to lose her temper.

"Oh, Tom," she snapped crossly. "I shall be angry."

Moore sat down on the bench previously ornamented by Patsy's youthful form.

"I'd rather you would be angry than sorry," he said, moodily.

There was a short silence. For a moment Bessie hesitated between anger and apology, then her real regard for Moore triumphed and she decided not to torment him further.

"Tom," she said softly.

Moore showed no sign of having heard her.

"Tom," she said as sweetly as a deliciously modulated voice could sound the word.

Still no reply. She stepped lightly towards him.

"Tom, dear, don't be sulky," she said, laying one hand upon his st.u.r.dy shoulder. "Why I care more for your little finger than I ever could for Sir Percival."

"Will you tell him so?" asked Moore, taking her hand as he rose.

This was asking entirely too much and Bessie raised her head very haughtily, indignant that her condescension in making so confidential a statement had led to such an extravagant request.

"Indeed, I will not," she declared, defiantly, returning as she spoke to her chair behind the desk at the front of the schoolroom. Moore followed her and they stood face to face, the desk between them.

"Very well," he said determinedly, "if you won't, I will."

"If you dare, Thomas Moore," cried Bessie, shaking one pink forefinger at the poet, admonishingly. "_If you dare!_"

"Faith, I dare do anything," he replied, and, seizing her hand, plunged the lifted finger up to the second joint in the contents of the inkstand, thus effectually ending the argument.

"Oh!" cried Bessie, holding her hand, so the jetty fluid would not fall upon her gown or ap.r.o.n. "You horrid, horrid thing, see what you have done!"

Moore laughed heartily at her discomfiture, and in so doing recovered his usual cheerful spirits.

"Oh, the ink will wash off," he chuckled. "That is more than the mark you have left on my heart will do, for that is indelible."