Liza brought up a foaming pot, but the young man put it aside with a bashful smile at the girl, who laughed and blushed as she pressed it back upon him.
“Not yet, Liza; when we come back, perhaps.”
“Will you not take it from me?” said the girl, turning her pretty head aside, and giving a sly dig of emphasis to the pronouns.
“Not even from you, Liza, yet awhile.”
The mischievous little minx was piqued at his refusal, and determined that he should drink it, or decline to do so at the peril of losing her smiles.
“Come, Robbie, you shall drink it off—you must.”
“No, my girl, no.”
“I think I know those that would do it if I asked them,” said Liza, with an arch elevation of her dimpled chin and a shadow of a pout.
“Who wouldn't do it, save Robbie Anderson?” he said, laughing for the first time that morning as he walked out of the kitchen.
In a few minutes he returned, saying all was ready, and it was time to start away. Every man rose and went to the front of the house. The old mare Betsy was there, with the coffin strapped on her broad back. Her bruised knees had healed; the frost had disappeared, her shoes were sharpened, and she could not slip. When the mourners had assembled and ranged themselves around the horse, the Reverend Nicholas Stevens came out with the relatives, the weeping mother and son, with Rotha Stagg, and the “Old Hundredth” was sung.