"What's an ear-bucket?" asked Miss Lutwyche, with cold contempt.
He winced like a child from a cane, but made no retort, merely setting all his finely developed muscles a-play, as he raised the gleaming bucket from the depths. When it was at the top, he paused.
"How's he to-night, Millie?"
"Mean my father?"
"Yes, Mr. Lutwyche."
"Oh, same's usual."
Bert's chest heaved with the burden of all he wished to say, and dare not. Some instinct, deep down in him, warned him not to speak to the girl of her father's fast-approaching end. And yet—he thought of all that Mayne had said! Now was his chance, if ever, to declare his passion. He wondered whether Mayne, or anybody else, knew how distant were the terms between him and Millie, what an impregnable barrier she stood behind, how far he was from being on such a footing as might be supposed to immediately precede a proposal of marriage. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and he felt the sweat break out upon him.
The girl moved, leaned over to detach the bucket from the hook. He started, and reaching quickly forward, brought it down upon the side of the well where he stood.
"I'm goin' to carry it indoors for you," he said sheepishly.
She turned, without a word of thanks, and began to walk back to the house.