"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.
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