“Pray, sir, don’t—pray, don’t,” she sobbed, trying to withdraw her hand. “Oh! what shall I do?”
“Speak put,” said Trevor.
“Aunt—aunt thinks, sir—wants, sir—you to marry me, sir; and oh!” she cried, throwing herself on her knees, and holding up her little hands as in prayer, “I do hate you so—I do, indeed!”
“Thank you, little one,” exclaimed Trevor, laughing merrily. “There, Polly, get up before you stain that pretty dress with the moss. Wipe your little eyes, and leave off hating me as soon as you can, and you shall marry Humphrey.”
“Oh, sir!” faltered Polly, rising.
“There, little one, go and walk about till your eyes are not red; and if you should see Humphrey down by the long copse, where they are repairing the ditches, tell him I shall want to see him about three—no, stop, say this evening. I am going for a drive.”
Polly hesitated a moment, and then caught and kissed his hand, shrinking back the next moment, ashamed at her boldness.
“There, I thought you would not hate me,” said Trevor. “I’ll go back at once and see your aunt. You shan’t be unhappy any more, little maiden.”
“Oh, pray, sir!” cried Polly again.
“I’m master here, my child; and I won’t have anybody about me made unhappy if I can stay it. Now, trot along.”