“Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?” she asked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.
“No, I han't,” the pert fellow rejoined.
“Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so like ony cat a mouse.”
“Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench,” he answered calmly.
“Yo' wench, indeed!” she cried, tossing her head.
“Ay, or will be,” he muttered.
“What's that?” she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face.
“Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be sure, and no sooner.”
The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.
“I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam,” she said.