“Thank ye, lad,” he said. “But I reck'n we can 'fend for oorsel's, Bob and I. Eh, Owd Un?”
Anxious as David might be, he was not so anxious as to be above taking a mean advantage of this state of strained apprehension to work on Maggie's fears.
One evening he was escorting her home from church, when, just before they reached the larch copse: “Goo' sakes! What's that?” he ejaculated in horror-laden accents, starting back.
“What, Davie?” cried the girl, shrinking up to him all in a tremble.
“Couldna say for sure. It mought be owt, or agin it mought be nowt. But yo' grip my arm, I'll grip yo' waist.”
Maggie demurred.
“Canst see onythin'?” she asked, still in a flutter.
“Be'ind the 'edge.”
“Wheer?”
“Theer! “—pointing vaguely.