"Or—or 'hurling yourself from the topmost pinnacle of yon lofty crag?'"
"Yes, Imp; the 'loftier' the better!"
"Then you must be in love, like Alan-a-Dale; he was going to hang himself, an' 'hurl himself oft the topmost pinnacle,' you know, only Robin Hood said, 'Whence that doleful visage,' an' stopped him—you remember?"
"To be sure," I nodded.
"An' so you are really in love with my Auntie Lisbeth, are you?"
"Yes."
"Is that why she's angry with you?"
"Probably."
The Imp was silent, apparently plunged once more in a profound meditation.
"'Fraid there's something wrong with her," he said at last, shaking his head; "she's always getting angry with everybody 'bout something—you an' me an' Mr. Selwyn."