“And now, Andy, I’m going to apologize to you and ask you to forgive me,” declared Nance, stoutly trying to go on with her knitting.
But Andy firmly took it from her and possessed himself of those busy hands.
“I was worse than you—when you said those hard things to me they hurt like fury—you didn’t know how they did hurt, but I did, and I should not have done the same thing to you. I said worse things to you than you did to me,—at least I tried to.”
“You did pretty well,” said Andy whimsically, pressing one of the imprisoned hands to his lips.
“Dr. Flint did want to marry me; I guess he still does, but—but——”
“But what, lassie?” Sometimes Andy dropped into his parents’ vernacular.
“I am not going to tell a man in his shirt sleeves why I didn’t marry Dr. Flint,” said Nance firmly. “It is too unpicturesque.”
“Then I’ll put on my coat.”
“No, you won’t! I wouldn’t tell a man in a wet coat, either.”
“Why not?”