“Suppose you were ill?”
“But I am not ill—was never better in my life.”
“Ah, Philip, you must let me have my way for this once—only for this once—you know,” she murmured, in a soft and beseeching manner.
But it was of no use—the farmer was obstinate, he could not or would not see the force of her argument, or yield to her powers of persuasion.
He told her again that she was a prey to groundless fears.
She looked at him sadly.
“Ye be more obstinate and harder than I took ye for,” she cried.
He smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder caressingly.
He found that she was still trembling, even more than before.
“Philip!” cried the girl, creeping closer to him, “I tell ye again this be no fancy; and even if it be, there would be no harm in your giving way to me for this once. I’ve tried to forget what happened between us two not long ago, when your head was lost to pleasure, and when my heart was lost to you; but I tell ye that something will soon see the light which will prevent my forgetting that foolish hour.”