"Och, the cursed young imp that he is," cried his uncle, Bill Kisseck, hitching his hand into Danny's guernsey at the neck, and steadying him as if he had been a sack with an open mouth. "Aw, the booby; just taking a rovin' commission and snappin' his finger at the ould masther. What d'ye think would a happent to you, ye beach-comber, if some ship had run ashore and been wrecked and scuttled and all hands lost, and not a pound of cargo left at her, and never a light on the pier, and all along of you, ye idiot waistrel!" CHAPTER III "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."