“And you know how dearly I love you?”
“Yes, Tom,” faltered Jessie sadly; “but it must be only as cousins.”
“And why?” said the young man sternly.
“Because,” said Jessie, laying her hand upon his arm, “I’m only a very poor girl, Tom, and half educated.”
“What a wicked story, Jessie!” cried Mrs Shingle, who had her apron to her eyes, but now spoke up indignantly—“why, you write beautiful!”
“And,” continued Jessie, “your father—my father would never consent to it; for I’m not a suitable choice for you to make.”
“Why, Jessie,” cried the young man, “you talk like a persecuted young lady in a book. What nonsense! Uncle Richard, if he felt sure that I should make you a good husband, would consent. And, as to my step-father—”
“Now, look here, you two,” said Mrs Shingle, “it’s important that Jessie should get to the warehouse with those things, and you’re stopping idling. It’s late as it is.”
“Come along, then,” cried Tom, seizing the parcel.
“No, no,” cried Jessie, who looked pale, and trembled.