“I’m not knowin’, Davy,” she answered, softly, looking away.
“’Tis somewhat awful, then,” said I, in alarm, “for you’re not lookin’ me in the eye.”
She looked then in her lap—and did not raise her eyes, though I waited: which was very strange.
“You isn’t sick, is you?”
“No-o,” she answered, doubtfully.
“Oh, you mustn’t get sick,” I protested. “’Twould never do. I’d fair die—if you got sick!”
“’Tisn’t sickness; ’tis—I’m not knowin’ what.”
“Ah, come,” I pleaded; “what is it, dear?”
“Davy, lad,” she faltered, “I’m just—dreadful—happy.”
“Happy?” cried I, scornfully. “’Tis not happiness! Why, sure, your lip is curlin’ with grief!”