“It would be nice now, wouldn’t it—” She broke off, clasping her knees and staring at the blaze.
“What would be nice?”
Lizzie laughed confusedly. “Aw, you make me say’t. I can’t abear any of the young men up to the Chapel. If me and you—”
Taffy ceased blowing. The fire died down, and in the darkness he could hear her breathing hard.
“They’re so rough,” she went on, “and t’other night I met young Squire Vyell riding along the road, and he stopped me and wanted to kiss me.”
“George Vyell? Surely he didn’t?” Taffy blew up the fire again.
“Iss he did. I don’t see why not, neither.”
“Why he shouldn’t kiss you?”
“Why he shouldn’t want to.”
Taffy frowned, carried the white hot bar to his anvil, and began to hammer. He despised girls, as a rule, and their ways. Decidedly Lizzie annoyed him; and yet as he worked he could not help glancing at her now and then, as she sat and watched him. By-and-by he saw that her eyes were full of tears.