Geoffrey felt disposed to stay, but his time was short, and, after a cheery “good-day,” he strode out, followed by the girl, to find that the rugged-looking old man was gone, patch and all; but the girl hurried on before him for a few yards, as if to be out of hearing at the cottage, and then held out her hand.
“What? Good-by!” said Geoffrey, smiling, and he held out his own.
“No, no, nonsense,” said the girl, flushing. “Give me the sweeties, and take your money back.”
“Then you carry that on to please the old lady, eh?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, of course,” replied the girl, sharply. “Didn’t you know?”
“Not I; but I guessed as much.”
“Mother’s been ill these twenty years, and has to be carried to her bed. She thinks she’s a burthen, so we do it to humour her.”
“I thought as much.”
“Then why don’t you take your money?” said a hoarse, rough voice, that chased away all the sentiment of the affair, and Geoffrey started round to see that the fierce-looking old man was leaning over a block of granite, his arms crossed, and his chin resting upon them. “Take your money and go.”
“No,” said Geoffrey, in his off-hand way. “No: thanks. I want the sweets for the children.”