Bethia fetched a plate, knife and fork, and glass, setting each before him with somewhat unnecessary clatter. Then she served up the vegetables, brought out a roll of butter and a small piece of cheese from the buttery, and took her place in silence.
“I’m sorry,” began Mrs. Masters regretfully, “we’ve got nothing better to offer ye, Mr. Fowler. My daughter and me seldom eats meat of a week day.”
“Don’t make excuses, Mother,” interrupted Bethia, with asperity. “Mr. Fowler knows very well that we are poor.”
The meal proceeded in silence for the most part, Mrs. Masters making an occasional remark, to which Jacob responded by a gruff monosyllable. Bethia did not speak once, but had never looked prettier in her life; the angry sparkle still lingered in her eyes, and her cheeks were flushed. Whenever she glanced at the visitor her countenance took on an additional expression of haughtiness.
At the end of the repast Jacob stood up. “I’d like a word wi’ ye private, Miss Masters.”
“Oh, I beg pardon, I’m sure,” apologised the poor old mother, hastening to efface herself.
As soon as her heavy footsteps were heard in the room upstairs the farmer turned to Bethia.
“I’ve a-come to see ye friendly like,” he remarked, “and I’ll come again. I ax ye, as a friend, my maid—will ye gie this notion up?”
Bethia looked if possible more indignant than before.
“No, Mr. Fowler,” she returned promptly, “I tell you—as a friend—I won’t.”