“I can take care o’ myself, thank ye,” returned Sally.
“No, no,” cried Sol with conviction, “no maid can do that. They was meant to be took care on, an’ I be a-goin’ to take care o’ you.”
Sally tossed her head.
“Perhaps I’ve other folks to take care o’ me if I choose to call ’em,” she remarked.
Indeed it would not have been in girlish nature to submit to the masterful manner in which Sol took possession of her.
“Be you a-keepin’ company wi’ somebody?” enquired Sol with some anxiety. “Because there’s no use my comin’ so far out o’ my road if ye be. I be workin’ over t’other side o’ the farm now that this ’ere job’s finished, an’ I’ve gone into a new lodgin’-there’s no use my wastin’ my time, my maid, if—”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want ye to waste no time on my account!” cried Sally.
Her voice was unsteady, and she blinked hard to keep back the tears. No maid, she said to herself, would like to be courted after such a fashion.
Sol sighed impatiently. As a practical man he was anxious to ascertain his position.
“Be there?” he enquired, with a self-restraint that was palpable and exasperating, “Be there another chap a-lookin’ arter ye, or bain’t there?”