‘I cannot,’ said she.
‘Give me one little golden wire of your hair, if you won’t give me a lock,’ he pleaded, coming close to the edge of the pool. ‘I will make a golden ring of it,’ he said, ‘and wear it in the eye of the world.’
‘Will you?’ said she.
‘I will, my dear,’ he said.
‘But I will not give you a hair of my head even to make a ring with,’ said she.
‘Then give me one for a leading-string,’ he said. ‘If you will, my charmer, you shall take the end of it and lead me whithersoever you will.’
‘Even to the whipping-post?’ said she.
‘Even to the whipping-post,’ he said. ‘So you will be my fair bride, won’t ’ee, sweet? If you will consent to love me, I’ll make you as happy as the day is long.’
‘Will you?’ cried she, with a warning look in her sea-blue eyes and a strange little laugh.
‘Yes,’ he said, thinking her answer meant consent. ‘And I’ve got a dear little house at Higher St. Saviour’s, overlooking the river and Padstow Town low in the valley.’