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."
Bessie stamped her tiny foot in her rage and made as though she would wipe her hand on Moore's coat, which caused the triumphant young man to seek sudden shelter behind the benches.
[Illustration: "I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."]
"Have you never been taught to perform your ablutions, Bessie?"
"Stupid! My other hand is burned and water will make it smart."
"I 've always tried wine when I thought I needed intellectual stimulation."
"I should think you would be drinking all the time," said Bessie, spitefully.
"Not _all_ the time," corrected Moore. "Part of it I spend earning the price. There, now, don't worry, I 'll scrub your little fist for you if you will let me. Will you?"
Bessie's anger cooled as rapidly as it had warmed.
"Trust me for that," said Moore, going to the bucket that stood in the corner with a basin covering it. "It's empty, Bessie. There is not as much water here as would make a foot-bath for a flea."
"You can fetch it from the well," said Bessie.
"You would be almost there now if you had n't stopped to talk."
"I suppose I will have to do it to please you," said the girl, yielding with a little sigh.
"Won't it please you, too?" said Moore, stopping her.
"Yes,--yes,--_yes_!" she replied, with increasing emphasis on each reiteration.
Moore let her pass, and she paused at the door, looking over her plump shoulder.
"Child," he repeated. "Child? Maybe I am, Bessie, but when you are called 'Mama' it won't be by me, though I think I 'll not be far off."