Bessie laughed and looked so tempting in her mirth that Moore made another attempt to kiss her, with no better success than had rewarded his previous efforts.
"Poverty is a common complaint," she observed, shaking her head at the disappointed youth.
"I had rather be poor than a miser," said Moore, sitting down on a stool.
"A miser? Am I one?"
"Yes, with your kisses. Faith, they are spoiling to be picked."
"I am the best judge of when and by whom they shall be picked, good sir," replied Bessie, pensively nibbling on the end of a brown curl.
"It is hard to be poor, Bessie," sighed Moore, resting his feet on a rung of the stool, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hand, this being a favorite attitude of the poet's.
"If you would marry Winnie Farrell you would have slews of money," suggested Bessie, leaning on the back of the bench with affected carelessness of demeanor, but there was a gleam in her eye, hidden 'neath drooping lids and long lashes, that seemed indicative of no little interest in the forthcoming answer.
Moore looked inquiringly at his fair companion.
"Winnie Farrell is it?" he said, laughing at the idea. "Not for me, Bessie. I have picked out another lassie."