“Meary, oi'm afeard you don't feel like oie.”
“P'r'aps not—women can't feel like men. I'm sorry that you are going, Jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and I wish you well.”
“Meary,” cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting quite close up to her, “will you marry oie? Say yeez or noa.”
This was coming close to the point. Mary drew farther from him, and turned her head away.
“Meary,” said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the apron-string, “do you think you can better yoursel'? If not—why, oie'm your man. Now, do just turn about your head and answer oie.”
The girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst out into a simpering laugh.
“Meary, will you take oie?” (jogging her elbow.)
“I will,” cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and running into the house.
“Well, that bargain's made,” said the lover, rubbing his hands; “and now, oie'll go and bid measter and missus good-buoy.”
The poor fellow's eyes were full of tears, for the children, who loved him very much, clung, crying, about his knees. “God bless yees all,” sobbed the kind-hearted creature. “Doan't forget Jacob, for he'll neaver forget you. Goodbuoy!”