“I tell you there isn’t anything the matter with—me. I’m not accountable for other people’s whims.”
The lad dropped the head-stall, and Nan, set free of her harness, walked quietly into her own place; while Beatrice, perching herself upon the manger’s front, threw her arms about her brother’s neck and gave him a resounding smack.
“There! That’s for ‘my ploughman, my jo’! Say, my dear, you have the heart-ache!”
“Don’t bother, Bon!”
“I’d rather bother Roland! What is it, Laureate? You will have to tell me sometime, you know; you might as well now. Besides, I’m dying to tell you something in return.”
“Well, tell. Then, maybe—”
“‘A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay!’ How did you guess?”
“Guess what? I wish you wouldn’t be silly, Bon. My head aches, I’m awfully tired, and I’m crosser than cross.”
“That last is an axiom,—a self-evident fact, you know; and I’m sorry for the head, but sorrier for the heart. Something has gone wrong, ever so far wrong. What is it, Bubsey?”
“Beatrice, if you don’t stop using that ridiculous name for me, I’ll—”