“But this is really serious,” protested Luke, trying in vain to reach the object with his outstretched fingers.
“And I have twisted my hair round it!” the girl went on, in exulting excitement, “I have twisted it tight around. It will be hard to get it off!”
Luke continued making ineffectual dives into the hole, while she watched him gleefully. He went to the hedge and breaking off a dusty sprig of woundwort prodded the ring with its stalk.
“You can’t do it” she cried, “you can’t do it! You’ll only push it further in!”
“Damn you, Annie!” he muttered. “This is a horrible kind of joke. I tell you, Gladys will want this confounded thing back tomorrow. She’s already asked me twice for it. She only gave it to me for fun.”
The girl leaned across the stone towards him, propping herself on the palms of her hands, and laughing mischievously. “No one in this village can get that ring out of there!” she cried; “no one! And when they does, they’ll find it all twisted up with my hair!” She tossed back her black locks defiantly.
Luke Andersen’s thoughts ran upon scissors, pincers, willow-wands, bramble-thorns, and children’s arms.
“Leave it then!” he said. “After all, I can swear I lost it. Come on, you little demon!”
They moved away; and St. Catharine’s church was only striking the hour of nine, when they separated at her mother’s door.