"MACK'REL—MACKER-EL—MACK-ER-EL!"

It was a brilliant morning. The sea lay like a glass floor, and the sunshine, like a million fairies, danced on it. The town looked as bright as it was possible for Peel to look. The smoke was only beginning to coil upward from the chimney stacks and the streets were yet quiet when the silvery voice of a child was heard to cry—

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

It was a little auburn-haired lassie of five, with ruddy cheeks, and laughing lips, and sparkling brown eyes. She wore a clean white apron that covered her skirt, which was tucked up and pinned in fish-wife fashion in front. Her head was bare; she carried a basket over one arm, and a straw hat that swung on the other hand.

The basket contained flowers which the child was selling: "A ha'penny a bunch, ma'am, only a ha'penny!" The little thing was as bright as the sunlight that glistened over her head. She had made a song of her sweet call, and chanted the simple words with a rhythmic swing—

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

"Ruby," cried a gentleman at the door of a house facing the sea. "Here, little one, give me a bunch of your falderolls. What? No! not falderolls? Is that it, little one, eh?"

It was Mr. Kerruish Kinvig.

The child pouted prettily and drew back her basket.

"What! not sell to me this morning! Oh, I see you choose your customers, you do, my lady. But I'll have the law on you, I will."

Ruby looked up fearlessly into the face of the dread iconoclast.

"I don't love you," she said.

"No—eh? And why not, now?"

"Because you call the flowers bad names."

"Oh, I do, do I? Well never mind, little one. Say we strike a peace—eh?"

"I don't like people that strike," said Ruby, with averted eyes.

"Well, then, cry a truce—anything you like."

Ruby knew what crying a flower or a fish meant.

"Here, now, little one, here's a penny; that's double wages, you know. Don't you think the law would uphold me if I asked for a—"

"A what?" asked the child, with innocent eyes.

"Well, say a kiss."

The bargain was concluded and the purchase ratified. In another minute the little feet were tripping away, and from a side street came the silvery voice that sang—

"Sweet violets and primroses the sweetest."

At the next corner the lassie's childlike tones were suddenly drowned by a lustier voice which cried, "Mack'rel! Macker—el! Fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—and bellies as big as bishops'—Mack—er—el!"

It was Danny Fayle with a board on his head containing his last instalment of the season's mackerel. When the two street-venders came together they stopped.

"Aw now, the fresh you're looking this morning, Ruby veg—as fresh as a dewdrop, my chree!"

The little one lifted her eyes and laughed. Then she plunged her hand into her basket and brought out a bunch of wild roses.

"That's for you, Danny," she said.

"Och, for me is it now? Aw, and is it for me it is?" said Danny, with wondering eyes. "The clean ruined it would be in half a minute, though, at the likes of me, Ruby veg. Keep it for yourself, woman." Louder: "Mack'rel—fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—Macker-el!" Then lower: "Aw now, the sweet and tidy they'd be lookin' in your own breast, my chree—the sweet extraordinary!"

The child looked up and smiled, looked down and pondered: then half reluctantly, half coquettishly, fixed the flowers in her bosom.

"Danny, I love you," she said, simply.

The object of Ruby's affection blushed violently and was silent.

"And so does Sissy," added the little one.

"Mona?" asked Danny, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth.

"Yes, and mama too."

Danny's face, which had begun to brighten, suddenly lost its sunshine. His lower lip was lagging wofully.

"Yes, Mona and mama, and—and everybody," said the child, with ungrudging spontaneity.

"No, Ruby ven."

Danny's voice was breaking. He tried to conquer this weakness by shouting aloud, "Mack-er—Mack—" Then, in a softer tone, "Not everybody, my chree."

"Well," said the child in earnest defense, "everybody except your uncle Kisseck."

"Bill? Bill? What about Bill?" said Danny, hoarsely.

"Why don't you fight into him, Danny? You're a big boy now, Danny. Why don't you fight into him?"

Danny's simple face grew very grave. The soft blue eyes had an uncertain look.

"Did Sissy say that, Ruby veg?"

"No, but she said Bill Kisseck was a—was a—"

"A what, Rue?"

"A brute—to you, Danny."

The lad's face trembled. The hanging lower lip quivered, and the whole countenance became charged with sudden energy. Lifting his board from his head, and taking up the finest of the fish, he said:

"Ruby, take this home to Mona. Here now; it's at the bottom of your basket I'm putting it."

"My flowers, Danny!" cried Ruby, anxiously.

"Aw, what's the harm they'll take at all. There—there" (fixing some seaweed over the mackerel)—"nice, extraordinary—nice, nice!"

"But what will your uncle Bill say, Danny?" asked the little one with the shadow of fear in her eyes.

"Bill? Bill? Oh, Bill," said Danny, turning away his eyes for a moment. Then, with an access of strength as he lifted his board onto his head and turned to go, "if Bill says anything, I'll—I'll—"

"No, don't, Danny; no, don't," cried Ruby, the tears rising to her eyes.

"Just a minute since," said Danny, "there came a sort of a flash, like that" (he swung one arm across his eyes), "and all of a sudden I knew middlin' well what to do with Bill."

"Don't fight, Danny," cried Ruby; but Danny was gone, and from another street came "Mack'rel—fine, ladies—fresh, ladies—and bellies as big as bishops'—Mack-er-el!"