“I ain’t got no ’ome,” said she shortly, “nor yet any one as wants my money.”
“What,” said he, “’aven’t you got no father nor mother?”
“No,” she answered; “I ’aven’t, and I don’t know as you’ve any call to ask.”
“Beg pardon,” said the man, and then he began to whistle, and looked away awkwardly. “I filled a can o’ water for ye at the budge,” said he presently. “It’s by yer door.”
“Thank you,” said she. And then there was silence again.
They walked on thus another couple of hundred yards down the road, and then turned aside beyond the hop-fields up a steep and shady lane that was dark in the dusky light. Half way up there was a break in the trees on one side through which one could see the evening sky beyond the Scotch firs. Here Martin suddenly stopped and came close up to her.
“Miss,” said he, without any introduction, “I’ve noticed as ye’re short wi’ me to-night, and I’ve been thinkin’ as p’r’aps ye’ve cause.”
She looked at him now; she had eyes like a startled fawn’s—now brown, now grey.
“I ain’t been,” she said.
“Yes,” insisted he, “and ye’ve cause. I’ve been courtin’ ye all the ’oppin’, and we don’t get on—and folk talk and vex ye.”