“Ay, lass, I know enew.”
“Tom, you don’t—you can’t know. But there, I can’t stay. It’s so dreadful. Let me go by.”
“No, Daisy,” said the young man passionately. “You can’t go by. I believe I hate thee now, but I can’t leave thee. You must go wi’ me.”
“Go with you—where?” cried the girl.
“To your own home, where your poor broken-hearted mother’s waiting for thee.”
“Oh, I shall go mad,” exclaimed Daisy. “Tell me. Where is Mrs Glaire? Where is Mr Richard?”
“You weak, silly girl,” said Tom, catching her arm. “I knew it was so, though they said strange things about thee. Oh, Daisy,” he said, piteously, as he sought to stay her, “leave him. Go home. Don’t for thee own sake stop this how. You threw away my poor, rough love, and I’ve towd my sen ower and ower again that I hated thee, but I don’t, Daisy. I’m only sorry for thee, I can’t forget the past.”
He turned aside to hide the workings of his face.
“How dare you speak to me like this?” cried Daisy. “You don’t know me, Tom, or you would not. I’ll go, I will not be so insulted, and by one who pretended so much.” Then, moved by the young fellow’s grief, she laid her hand upon his arm. “Tom,” she said, softly, “you’ll be sorry for this when you know all.”
“Don’t touch me,” cried Tom, passionately, as he shook her off. “I can’t bide it, Daisy. I loved you once, but you threw me over for that bit of a butterfly of a thing.”