"Nay."
"Not for a mite of a minute?" His voice shook.
"Nay, not I!"
He lifted his shoulders, and let them droop again. "I'm sure coming back, though!" he finished, in his persistent way.... "Stop a shake, though! What about the tide?"
His eyes turned from old custom to the table over the hearth, and, crossing over to it, he struck a light. The silver box in his hand flashed a tiny scintilla on the dusky air. He looked up at the table, but he did not see it, the match dwindling above his brooding face.
"You might ha' been just a mite glad to see me!" he exclaimed wistfully, stamping it out upon the flags. "Why, you'd never ha' known me from Adam if I hadn't given you the call! It'll give me the knock right out if May don't know me neither when I sail in. They say sweethearts don't forget, no more than mothers, but perhaps it's all a doggoned lie!"
"She was Geordie's lass,--not yours!" Sarah told him, with jealous haste.
"Sure!" he said with a smile, and struck a second match.
Now he looked at the table in earnest, but only for a space. "Saturday," she heard him murmuring, in an absent voice. "Martinmas, ain't it? ... Tide at ten...."
She made a movement forward and put out her hands.