“No, no! That's not it! But I've changed my mind; I don't mean to throw meself away.”
“I told you you'd see it that way,” he said. “No man is worth it.”
“Ah, lad!” said she. “'Tis the fine soothin' tongue ye have—but I'd rather ye knew the truth. 'Tis that I've seen the other girl; and I hate her!”
They walked for a bit in silence. Hal had sense enough to realise that here was a difficult subject. “I don't want to be a prig, Mary,” he said gently; “but you'll change your mind about that, too. You'll not hate her; you'll be sorry for her.”
She laughed—a raw, harsh laugh. “What kind of a joke is that?”
“I know—it may seem like one. But it'll come to you some day. You have a wonderful thing to live and fight for; while she”—he hesitated a moment, for he was not sure of his own ideas on this subject—“she has so many things to learn; and she may never learn them. She'll miss some fine things.”
“I know one of the fine things she does not mean to miss,” said Mary, grimly; “that's Mr. Hal Warner.” Then, after they had walked again in silence: “I want ye to understand me, Mr. Warner—”
“Ah, Mary!” he pleaded. “Don't treat me that way! I'm Joe.”
“All right,” she said, “Joe ye shall be. 'Twill remind ye of a pretty adventure—bein' a workin' man for a few weeks. Well, that's a part of what I have to tell ye. I've got my pride, even if I'm only a poor miner's daughter; and the other day I found out me place.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.