As she was scudding round the door post, and looking over her shoulder, Martha looked up from her demure employment (neither she nor Lionel had heard the crash) and no longer seeing Nancy, or Betsy, behold the birr-birring of her wheel ceased, and she started up from the work-a-day, wooden seat.
“Nay, thou art not afraid.”
“Afraid—I? Of you—oh no.”
And she thought, for a farmer, he seemed very gentle; he also thought she was very superior, for a servant; and, as he was his own master, he had a right to think as he liked. Truth to tell, I think she was beginning to feel kindly towards the gentle farmer.
“So thou art not afraid of me, Martha?”
“Oh no,” she said again; still, nevertheless wishing Nancy to return.
“I promise thee, Martha, I will be a kind master—a better master thou shalt not wish for.”
“And I promise thee, master, I shall be a bad servant—a worse servant thou wilt never wish to be rid of. The honest truth and the plain truth is, I’m only fit for laughing.”
“Well, if thou canst only laugh—i’faith, laugh. Thou doest that bravely. I’ll not part with thee, Martha. I’d rather die than part with thee, Martha!”
“Sir,” said the new servant, in faint surprise. ’Twas a love-at-first-sight declaration, she knew.