He knitted his brows and looked at her intently, then he tried to shake his head.
"Hamblyn?" he questioned slowly. "I hate the Hamblyns—I hate the very name! All except the squire's little maid," and he closed his eyes, and was silent for several moments. Then he went on again—
"I wish I could hate the squire's little maid too, but I can't. I've tried hard, but I can't. She's so pretty, and she's to marry an old man, old enough to be her grandfather. Oh, it's a shame, for he'll break her heart. If I were only a rich man I'd steal her."
"Hush, hush!" she said quickly. "Do you know what you are saying?"
He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her again, but there was no clear light of recognition in them. For several minutes he talked incessantly on all sorts of subjects, but in the end he got back to the question that for the moment seemed to dominate all the rest.
"You can't be the squire's little maid," he said, "for she is going to marry an old man. Don't you think it is a sin?"
"Hush, hush!" she said, in a whisper.
"I think it's a sin," he went on. "And if I were rich and strong I wouldn't allow it. I wish she were poor, and lived in a cottage; then I would work and work, and wait and hope, and—and——"
"Yes?" she questioned.
"We would fight the world together," he said, after a long pause.