“I won't promise; Heaven knows where you'll be—where I 'll be, by that time! Would you like to pledge yourself to anything on the day the ripe fruit shall glow between those pale leaves?”
“Perhaps I might,” said he, stealing a half-tender glance towards her.
“Well, I would not,” said she, looking him full and steadfastly in the face.
“Then that means you never cared very much for any one?”
“If I remember aright, you were engaged as a gardener, not as father confessor. Now, you are really not very expert at the former; but you 'll make sad work of the latter.”
“You have not a very exalted notion of my tact, Miss Dill.”
“I don't know,—I'm not sure; I suspect you have at least what the French call 'good dispositions.' You took to your wheelbarrow very nicely, and you tried to dig—as little like a gentleman as need be.”
“Well, if this does not bate Banagher, my name is n't Darby!” exclaimed a rough voice, and a hearty laugh followed his words. “By my conscience, Miss Polly, it's only yerself could do it; and it's truth they say of you, you 'd get fun out of an archdaycon!”
Conyers flung away his spade, and shook the mould from his boots in irritation.
“Come, don't be cross,” said she, slipping her arm within his, and leading him away; “don't spoil a very pleasant little adventure by ill humor. If these melons come to good, they shall be called after you. You know that a Duke of Montmartre gave his name to a gooseberry; so be good, and, like him, you shall be immortal.”