“Yes,” he said, “I was looking for somebody;” and then he tried to shake her off.
“Is it Maudie, you mane, dear? Are you the young man from Dublin?”
“Lave me, my girl; lave me,” said Pete, patting her hand, and twisting about.
The girl looked at him with a sort of pity, and then close at his neck she said, “A fine boy like you shouldn't be going fretting his heart about the best girl that's in.”
He looked at the pretty face again, and the little knowing airs began to break down. “You're a Manx girl, aren't you?”
The smile vanished like a flash. “How do you know that? My tongue doesn't tell you, does it?” And the little thing was ashamed.
Pete took the tight-gloved fingers in his big palm. “So you're my lil countrywoman, then?” he said. “How old are you?”
The painted lips began to tremble. “Sixteen for harvest,” she answered.
“My God!” exclaimed Pete.
The darkened eyelids blinked; she was beginning to cry. “It wasn't my fault. He was a visitor with my mother at Ballaugh, and he left me to it.”