"If you aren't angry with me, why should you act crusty?" he urged. "You aren't half as pleasant as t'other day."
Eliza had not prepared herself for this free speaking, and her mind was one that moved slowly.
"I must take the children home," she said. "I'm not angry. I wasn't pleasant that I know of."
"You ought to be pleasant, any way; for I'm your best friend."
Eliza was not witty, and she really could not think of an answer to this astonishing assertion. Again she looked at him in simple surprise.
"Well, yes, I am; although you don't know it. There isn't man round Turriffs who has the least idea in the world where you are, for your friends left you asleep when they came out with the old gentleman; when I twigged how you got off I never told a word. Your father had been seen" (here he winked) "near Dalhousie, wandering round! But they won't find you unless I tell them, and I won't."
"Won't find me unless you tell them," repeated Eliza slowly, the utmost astonishment in her tone. "Who?"
So vague and great was the wonder in her voice that he brought his eyes to interrogate hers in sudden surprise. He saw only simple and strong interest on the face of a simple and strong country girl. He had expected a different response and a different expression.
He put his tongue in the side of his cheek with the air of an uncontrolled boy who has played a trump-card in vain. "Say," said he, "didn't you, though?"
"Didn't I?" said Eliza, and after a minute she said, "What?"