“No, no; not for a girl’s whim,” said Jill, “but for her sore need—for her werry sore need. Oh, Silas Lynn, I know as you has got a really kind heart.”
“Maybe I has, and maybe I han’t. I won’t lend the money unless you keep to your word. You said as you’d do anything for me. That means a deal. Do you abide by them words?”
“As far as I can, Mr Lynn.”
“You can abide by ’em ef you will. Now, for instance, ef I were to say there’s a nice little cottage in the country awaiting for a missis, and I wor to say: ‘Come, Jill, and be my own true love’—why, I declare I’m getting quite into the poetry vein. And ain’t the pretty dear turned red? Shall it be a bargain, Jill Robinson?—I give you the five pounds, and you give me your nice little purty bit of a self.”
“No, Mr Lynn. No,” said Jill. Little by little the colour had left her face; even her lips were white. “I didn’t understand it in that way,” she said. “It can’t be.”
She took up her empty basket and went away.
Chapter Ten.
Jill never remembered afterwards how she spent that long day. She had no flowers to sell, for she had taken her basket empty from the market, leaving those that were over from the day before in a pail of water at home.