"Too poor, Angus! Am I not poor also?"
"Not as poor as I am," he answered, promptly possessing himself of the caressing hand. "In fact, you're quite rich compared to me. You've got a house, and you've got work, which brings you in enough to live upon,—now I haven't a roof to call my own, and my stock of money is rapidly coming to an end. I've nothing to depend upon but my book,—and if I can't sell that when it's finished, where am I? I'm nothing but a beggar—less well off than I was as a wee boy when I herded cattle. And I'm not going to marry you——"
She stopped in her walk and looked at him with a smile.
"Oh Angus! I thought you were!"
He kissed the hand he held.
"Don't make fun of me, Mary! I won't allow it! I am going to marry you!—but I'm not going to marry you till I've sold my book. I don't suppose I'll get more than a hundred pounds for it, but that will do to start housekeeping together on. Won't it?"
"I should think it would indeed!" and she lifted her head with quite a proud gesture—"It will be a fortune!"
"Of course," he went on, "the cottage is yours, and all that is in it. I can't add much to that, because to my mind, it's just perfect. I never want any sweeter, prettier little home. But I want to work for you, Mary, so that you'll not have to work for yourself, you understand?"
She nodded her head gravely.
"I understand! You want me to sit with my hands folded in my lap, doing nothing at all, and getting lazy and bad-tempered."