urdy bloom. All was brilliant with a sense of Spring save
the seven dark-clothed figures in the centre of the yard.

"Can you guess what kind from party it is?" shrieked Sadie Gonorowsky
from the top of a tottering soap box to which she had withdrawn.

"Why, it's--" Teacher began, recognizing some elements of the scene, but
made uncertain by the seven dark little figures, "of course it's----"

"It's 'Games in Gardens,'" shouted the little girls, waving their flags
like mad and "scupping" so energetically that two disappeared, "it's
Games in Gardens, und you're goin' to have a s'prise."

One of the dark and silent figures found speech and motion.

"Set down an' shut up," commanded Patrick Brennan. "We're goin' to
begin."

The shutting up would have been effected automatically by the next
proceeding of the seven. They laid violent hands upon themselves and in
an instant a flat little heap of dark clothes marked the centre of the
yard, and Patrick Brennan, Ignatius Aloysius Diamentstein, Isidore
Applebaum, Nathan Spiderwitz, Isidore Wishnewsky, Isaac Belchatosky, and
Morris Mowgelewsky stood forth in costumes reported by Isaac
Borrachsohn, sanctioned by Miss Bailey, and owned by members of the
audience.

A moment of tense silence followed. Every eye sought Teacher, and
Constance Bailey knew that upon her first word or look depended success
or failure, pride or everlasting shame. There was no time to wonder how
the mistake arose. No time to remember what she had said that could
possibly have been interpreted to mean this. They were her gallant
little knights doing her uncomprehended bidding, and trying--at what
sacrifice she guessed--to pleasure their liege lady.

Again she had blundered. Again she had failed to quite bridge the
distance. The wrong word lay somewhere back in her effort to undo Isaac
Borrachsohn's mischief. And she had wrought mischief ten times worse.
The most devoted of her charges stood there in the clear May sunshine;
the funniest, most pathetic, most ridiculous little figures, with their
thin little arms and legs and their long little necks: proud,
embarrassed, wistful.

"My dear boys," she cried suddenly, "how fine you look! How beautiful
and--and--clean you are," she went on a little bit at random. "And now
we are going to have games, and the girls and I will cheer the winners."

"Be ye s'prised?" yelled Patrick in irrepressible pride.

"Dreadfully!" she answered. "Dreadfully, Patrick dear