'I never know'd a reel beauty—first-chop, of course, I mean—that wasn't kind along of it, and I'm a fellah as can't git along without sympathy—that's why I say it—an' isn't it hard lines? Now, say it's hard lines—haint it, Maud?'
I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said—
'I suppose it is very disagreeable.'
And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the same vein, I rose, intending to take my departure.
'No, that's jest it. I knew ye'd say it, Maud. Ye're a kind lass—ye be—'tis in yer pretty face. I like ye awful, I do—there's not a handsomer lass in Liverpool nor Lunnon itself—no where.'
He had seized my hand, and trying to place his arm about my waist, essayed that salute which I had so narrowly escaped on my first introduction.
'Don't, sir,' I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the same moment from his grasp.
'No offence, lass; no harm, Maud; you must not be so shy—we're cousins, you know—an' I wouldn't hurt ye, Maud, no more nor I'd knock my head off. I wouldn't.'
I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, but, without showing how nervous I was, I glided out of the room quietly, making an orderly retreat, the more meritorious as I heard him call after me persuasively—'Come back, Maud. What are ye afeard on, lass? Come back, I say—do now; there's a good wench.'
As Milly and I were taking our walk that day, in the direction of the Windmill Wood, to which, in consequence perhaps of some secret order, we had now free access, we saw Beauty, for the first time since her illness, in the little yard, throwing grain to the poultry.