He spoke with conviction and Grace did not reply. A black-and-orange humble bee was working in the wild thyme at her feet. It tumbled and laboured from cluster to cluster of the flowers, pulled each tiny purple corolla to itself and dipped into each for the stores there hidden. It droned hither and thither, full of business, and at last, lifting itself heavily, flew away with a cheerful boom of thanksgiving. So near Grace's ear did it go, that she started, and Lee, though grave enough at heart, laughed.
"He won't hurt 'e. They bumbles have no spears, I believe—anyway they never use 'em."
"I hate Peter Norcot!" she said aloud, suddenly, and with such vehemence that John started and stared.
"I hate him—hate—hate—hate him! Hark at the echo. I've told the echo that many a time. And the echo always answers very wisely, 'Hate him!'"
"What have you got against him, if I may ax?"
"Nothing; and that's everything. He's perfect."
"An' do love your very shadow, so they say."
"I forgot that. There is reason enough for not liking him."
"Then you'll have to hate every man on the Moor. They all love you—even I dare to do it."
"Love me?"