“Well, you may speak,” replied she, turning her back, and beginning to plait the hem of her apron.
He came close to her ear.
“I’m sorry I hurt Willie the other night. He has forgiven me. Can you?”
“You hurt him very badly,” she replied. “But you are right to be sorry. I forgive you.”
“Stop, stop!” said he, laying his hand upon her arm. “There is something more I’ve got to say. I want you to be my—what is it they call it, Susan?”
“I don’t know,” said she, half-laughing, but trying to get away with all her might now; and she was a strong girl, but she could not manage it.
“You do. My—what is it I want you to be?”
“I tell you I don’t know, and you had best be quiet, and just let me go in, or I shall think you’re as bad now as you were last night.”
“And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I came home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall never have to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I would come straight home, and count every minute an hour till I saw your bonny face. Now you know what I want you to be. I ask you to be my wife. Will you, my own dear Susan?”
She did not speak for some time. Then she only said “Ask father.” And now she was really off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and up in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the triumphant smile had left Michael’s face where he stood.