“But I do care!” he returned. “I cannot leave you here and will not. If you will trust me and do as I tell you, the people you go to need know nothing you do not choose to tell them.”
It was evident that his determination made her falter, and seeing this he followed up his advantage and so far improved it that at last, after a few more arguments, she rose slowly and picked up the fallen paper.
“If I mun go, I mun,” she said, twisting it nervously in her fingers, and then there was a pause, in which she plainly lingered to say something, for she stood before him with a restrained air and downcast face. She broke the silence herself, however, suddenly looking up and fixing her large eyes full upon him.
“If I was a lady,” she said, “happen I should know what to say to yo'; but bein' what I am, I dunnot. Happen as yo're a gentleman yo' know what I'd loike to say an' canna—happen yo' do.”
Even as she spoke, the instinct of defiance in her nature struggled against that of gratitude; but the finer instinct conquered.
“We will not speak of thanks,” he said. “I may need help some day, and come to you for it.”
“If yo' ivver need help at th' pit will yo' come to me?” she demanded. “I've seen th' toime as I could ha' gi'en help to th' Mesters ef I'd had th' moind. If yo'll promise that——”
“I will promise it,” he answered her.
“An' I'll promise to gi' it yo',” eagerly. “So that's settled. Now I'll go my ways. Good neet to yo'.”
“Good night,” he returned, and uncovering with as grave a courtesy as he might have shown to the finest lady in the land, or to his own mother or sister, he stood at the road-side and watched her until she was out of sight.