He looked back.
“I thought yo’ wanted a kiss t’other night.”
“Aye, but yo’ refused me smartly.”
“Well,” and here Mary drooped her head and played with the corner of her apron. “Well—I’ve, I’ve changed my mind.”
And Tom laughed a great laugh and stooped over my cousin and she raised her crimson face to his.
“Gad! Bamforth, my lad, I’d change places with you this minute and risk Jack Ketch. Good luck and good day.”
And Long Tom strode down the stairs. There were three other mounted soldiers in the yard.
“A false scent again,” we heard him say. “Only an old woman in a fever. The bird’s flown.”
“It isn’t often you stay upstairs so long with an old woman, sergeant!” laughed a trooper; and they shook their reins and clattered out of the yard, the hens scurrying with beating wings, and the ducks waddling, quacking loudly, out of their way.
I made to thank Mary, but she fled from my room and I saw her no more all that day, and when, the next morning, she brought me, instead of the bowl of porridge on which I break my fast when hearty, a dish of tea and a buttered egg, and I would have drawn her to my heart, as surely lover may draw his mistress, Mary held aloof.