Anny put down the candlestick which she was cleaning, and slipping off the window-ledge led him over to the fireplace, where she sat down on one of the long, high-backed seats and pulled him down beside her.
“Do you want to tell me you don’t want to marry me?” she asked half jestingly, half anxiously, as she leaned her little round head with its long black plaits on his shoulder.
Hal turned to her in great astonishment.
“Marry, lass! How can ye be so cruel as to judge me so?” he said. “Of course not!”
“Oh, the saints be praised for that,” said the girl quaintly. “Lord, how you fear’d me, Hal,” she added, kneeling up on the seat to kiss him.
The boy put his arm round her.
“Anny,” he said quietly, his face grave and old for one of his years, “you’re terrible young yet, seventeen ain’t you?” The girl nodded, uncertain as to what was coming yet. “Ah, well, you ain’t had time to grow wise, have you?” he continued, still holding her on the seat beside him.
“I reckon you ain’t had much more, Hal,” she said, laughing. “You’re but eighteen, ain’t you?”
Hal blushed.
“Ay, maybe,” he said. “But I know what I’m telling you.”