“You’ll forget me, like as not,” said Tom, earnestly hoping to be contradicted.
“Of course I shall,” replied Jenny flippantly.
“I wish you wouldn’t, Jenny,” said Tom, with a meek humility that should have disarmed Jenny’s resentment, but only increased it. Like many other foolish people, Jenny was apt to mistake pert speeches for cleverness, and gentleness for want of manly spirit. “I wish you wouldn’t, Jenny. There isn’t a soul as thinks as much of you as I do, not in all the country-side. Nor there isn’t one as ’ll miss you like me.”
“I just wish you’d take up with somebody else, and give over plaguing me,” said Jenny mercilessly. “There’s Ruth Merston, and Dolly Campion, and Abigail—”
“I don’t want ne’er a one on ’em,” answered Tom, in a rather hurt tone. “I’ve never thought, not a minute, o’ nobody but you, Jenny, not since we was a little lad and lass together. I’ve always loved you, Jenny. Haven’t you ne’er a kind word for me afore we part? May be a long day ere we shall meet again.”
“I’m sure I hope it will,” said Jenny, half vexed at Tom’s pertinacity, and half amusing herself, for she thought it good fun to tease him.
“Don’t you care the least bit for me, Jenny, dear?”
“No, I don’t. Why should I?”
“But you used, Jenny, once. Didn’t you, now? That day I brought you them blue ribbons you liked so well, you said—don’t you mind what you said, dear heart?”
“I said a deal o’ nonsense, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t be a goose, Tom! You can’t think to bind a girl to what she says when you give her blue ribbons.”