"What lovely roses!"
The speech was pleasant enough in itself, almost a compliment. But there was a challenge in the words—as the speaker himself was aware.
"They're well enough," she answered carelessly, as if to imply that she had no more to say—he could go on if he cared to.
"I wonder, now, if you'd give me one—one of the red ones yonder—if it's not too much to ask?"
The girl drew herself up. "'Tis not our way at Moisio to give roses over the fence to strangers—though there may be those elsewhere that are willing enough."
"Though there may be those elsewhere…." The young man flushed. He understood what was in her mind—the tone of her voice was enough. He had expected something of this at their first encounter, but for all that he was startled at the fierce resolution in her opening thrust.
"'Tis not my way to beg for roses over every fence," he answered proudly. "Nor to ask a thing twice of anyone. Good-night!"
The girl looked at him, astonished. She had not expected anything like this.
He walked on a few paces, then stopped suddenly, and clearing the ditch with a leap, stood leaning against the fence.
"There's just one thing I'd like to say—if I may," he said, glancing sharply at her.