“Married?” he echoed. “What for?”
“Say, Cap’n, you’ve struck the nail on the head, es usual!” cried Peg, regaining his composure with an effort. “I guess the lady don’t altogether know her own mind. She was kind o’ calc’latin’ on bein’ married t’ me. But she’s thought better of it b’ now, an’ I’m bearin’ up es well es I kin under the circumstances. The’ ain’t goin’t’ be no weddin’. No, sir! She’s changed her mind sence she come in here. D’ye hear, ma’am? You couldn’t put up with ol’ Peg Morrison. Y’ tried to, f’om a strict sense o’ duty; but y’ reelly couldn’t do it.”
“Peleg!” exclaimed Miss Cottle sharply. “You must have taken leave of your senses!”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t. The Cap’n here’ll bear witness that I said you’d give me up. That’ll put a stop t’ the talk—ef the’ is any. You c’n tell ’em that. I won’t deny it. I c’n stan’ it.”
A light as of tardy victory dawned in Miss Cottle’s eyes.
“You won’t deny that we’ve been engaged to be married?” she said slowly.
“No, ma’am; you c’n say anythin’ you’ve a mind to. It’s all the same t’ me, now ’t you’ve give me up. I feel turrible bad—all broke up; but I’m a-goin’ t’ stan’ it the best I kin. Religion ’ll help some, I guess. It gene’lly does. I’ll try it, anyhow.”
“I might reconsider,” observed Miss Cottle, “before”—she added darkly—“the affair becomes public. I fear the notoriety will be very hard for you to bear, Peleg.”
“It will, ma’am,” replied Peg with alacrity; “but I’m goin’ t’ try an’ endure it.”
Miss Cottle meditatively stirred the onions with one foot clad substantially in rusty leather.