“Stuff and nonsense, aunt!—I’m not a gentleman, and I’m only your nephew; and whilst I’m here I’m not going to see Jessie go through the street carrying a parcel, when I can do it for her.”
“But you must not, indeed, Tom—I mean Mr Fraser,” said Jessie, half-tearful, half-laughing. “I’m going to the warehouse, and I must carry it myself.”
“I know you are going to the warehouse,” said Tom, laughing; “but you must not carry the parcel yourself.”
“But, my dear boy,” said Mrs Shingle, who was evidently softening, “think of what your father would say.”
“I can’t help what he would say, aunt,” said the young man, earnestly; “I only know I can’t help coming here, and I don’t think you want to be cruel and drive me away.”
“No—no—no,” said Mrs Shingle, “but—”
“Do you, Jessie?”
“No, Tom—Mr Fraser,” faltered Jessie. “But—”
“But—but!” exclaimed the young man impatiently. “Bother Mr Fraser! My dear Jessie, why are you turning so cold here before your mother? Are you ashamed of me?”
“No—no, Tom,” she cried eagerly.