“I don’t want to go,” said Joan, coldly.
“There you’d be taught the true speech of a lady, and the twist of the tongue on French, and the nice little 229 things you’ve missed here among the sheep, Joan darlin’, and that neither me nor your mother nor John Mackenzie––good lad that he is, though mistaken at times, woeful mistaken in his judgment of men––can’t give you, gerrel.”
“No, I’ll stay here and work my way out with the sheep,” said she.
Tim was standing at her side, a bit behind her, and she turned a little more as she denied him, her head so high she might have been listening to the stars. He looked at her with a deep flush coming into his brown face, a frown narrowing his shrewd eyes.
“Ain’t you that stubborn, now!” he said.
“Yes, I am,” said Joan.
“Then,” said Tim, firing up, the ashes of deceit blowing from the fire of his purpose at once, “you’ll take what I offer or leave what you’ve got! I’ll have no more shyin’ and shillyin’ out of you, and me with my word passed to old Malcolm Reid.”
Joan wheeled round, her face white, fright in her eyes.
“You mean the sheep?” she asked.
“I mean the sheep––just that an’ no less. Do as I’ll have you do, and go on to school to be put in polish for the wife of a gentleman, or give up the flock and the interest I allowed you in the increase, and go home and scrape the pots and pans!”