“Nay, I meant all for the best. I told her I saw you were looking towards her through a wedding ring, But she won't hear of it.”
“There was no need to tell her that, wife; she knows I am courting her this twelvemonth.”
“Not I,” said Margaret; “or I should never have opened the street door to you.
“Why, I come here every Saturday night. And that is how the lads in Rotterdam do court. If we sup with a lass o' Saturdays, that wooing.”
“Oh, that is Rotterdam, is it? Then next time you come, let it be Thursday or Friday. For my part, I thought you came after my puddings, boy.”
“I like your puddings well enough. You make them better than mother does, But I like you still better than the puddings,” said Luke tenderly.
“Then you have seen the last of them. How dare you talk so to another man's wife, and him far away?” She ended gently, but very firmly, “You need not trouble yourself to come here any more, Luke; I can carry my basket myself.”
“Oh, very well,” said Luke; and after sitting silent and stupid for a little while, he rose, and said sadly to Catherine, “Dame, I daresay I have got the sack;” and went out.
But the next Saturday Catherine found him seated on the doorstep blubbering. He told her he had got used to come there, and every other place seemed strange. She went in, and told Margaret; and Margaret sighed, and said, “Poor Luke, he might come in for her, if he could know his place, and treat her like a married wife.” On this being communicated to Luke, he hesitated, “Pshaw!” said Catherine, “promises are pie-crusts. Promise her all the world, sooner than sit outside like a fool, when a word will carry you inside, now you humour her in everything, and then, if Poor Gerard come not home and claim her, you will be sure to have her—in time. A lone woman is aye to be tired out, thou foolish boy.”