"'Tis an abomination!" quoth I.
"And 'twill hold water!"
"'Tis like an ill dream!" says I.
"And so strong, Martin."
"True, 'tis the only merit the things possess, they are like stone—watch now!" And here, to prove my words, I let one drop, though indeed I chose a soft place for it.
"And they will be so easy to carry with these handles, and—why, what have you there?" Saying which she sets down the pot, gently as it had been an egg-shell, and comes to me; whereupon I showed her my posy, and I more fool-like than ever.
"I chanced to—see them growing," says I, "and thought—your birthday—they might pleasure you a little, mayhap—"
"Please me?" says she, taking them. "Please me—O the dear, beautiful things, I love them!" And she buries her face among them. "'Twas kind of you to bring them for me, Martin!" says she, her face hidden in the flowers, "Indeed you are very good to me! After all, you are that same dear Martin I knew long ago, that boy who used to brandish his rusty sword and vow he'd suffer no evil to come near me, and yearned for ogres and dragons to fight and slay on my behalf. And one day you caught a boy pulling my hair."
"It was very long hair even then!" says I.
"And he made your lip bleed, Martin."