“I canna see nowt.”
“Why, theer, lass. Can yo' not see? Then yo' pit your head along o' mine—so—closer—closer.” Then, in aggrieved tones: “Whativer is the matter wi' yo', wench? I might be a leprosy.”
But the girl was walking away with her head high as the snow-capped Pike.
“So long as I live, David M'Adam,” she cried, “I'll niver go to church wi' you agin!”
“Iss, but you will though—onst,” he answered low.
Maggie whisked round in a flash, superbly indignant.
“What d'yo' mean, sir-r-r?”
“Yo' know what I mean, lass,” he replied sheepish and shuffling before her queenly anger.
She looked him up and down, and down and up again.
“I'll niver speak to you agin, Mr. M'Adam,” she cried; “not if it was ever so—Nay, I'll walk home by myself, thank you. I'll ha' nowt to do wi' you.”