“Then you had better say you did it yourself,” said Fleming.
“Why?” asked the girl, suddenly opening her eyes on him with relentless frankness.
“You said your father didn't like miners, and he mightn't like your lending your pan to me.”
“I'm more afraid o' lyin' than o' dad,” she said with an elevation of moral sentiment that was, however, slightly weakened by the addition, “Mammy'll say anything I'll tell her to say.”
“Well, good-by,” said Fleming, extending his hand.
“Ye didn't tell me what luck ye had with the pan,” she said, delaying taking his hand.
Fleming shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, my usual luck,—nothing,” he returned, with a smile.
“Ye seem to keer more for gettin' yer old ring back than for any luck,” she continued. “I reckon you ain't much o' a miner.”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Ye didn't say wot yer name was, in case dad wants to know.”