Just then mother came down with the apples, and some dip-candles, and a basket of broken victuals; and Miss Mimy tied her cloak and said she believed she must be going. And Stephen went and got his hat and coat, and said,—
"Miss Mimy, wouldn't you like a little company to help you carry your bundles? Come, Emmie, get your shawl."
So I ran and put on my things, and Stephen and I went home with Aunt
Mimy.
"Emmie," says Stephen, as we were coming back, and he'd got hold of my hand in his, where I'd taken his arm, "what do you think of Aunt Mimy now?"
"Oh," says I, "I'm sorry I've ever been sharp with her."
"I don't know," said Stephen. "'Ta'n't in human nature not to pity her; but then she brought her own trouble on herself, you see."
"Yes," said I.
"I don't know how to blast rocks," says Stephen, when we'd walked a little while without saying anything,—"but I suppose there is something as desperate that I can do."
"Oh, you needn't go to threatening me!" thinks I; and, true enough, he hadn't any need to.
"Emmie," says he, "if you say 'No,' when I ask you to have me, I sha'n't ask you again."