"Take thy head out o' the coow," said he, roughly, "and answer straight. Is all our wooing to go for naught?"
"Wooing? You never said so much to me in all these years as you have to-day."
"O, ye knew my mind well enough. There's a many ways of showing the heart."
"Speaking out is the best, I trow."
"Why, what do I come here for twice a week, this two years past, if not for thee?"
"Ay, for me, and father's ale."
"And thou canst look at me, and tell me that? Ye false, hard-hearted hussy. But nay, thou wast never so: 't is this Thomas Leicester hath bewitched thee, and set thee against thy true lover."
"Mr. Leicester pays no suit to me," said Mercy, blushing. "He is a right civil-spoken gentleman, and you know you saved his life."
"The more fool I. I wish I had known he was going to rob me of my lass's heart, I'd have seen him die a hundred times ere I'd have interfered. But they say if you save a man's life he'll make you rue it. Mercy, my lass, you are well respected in the parish. Take a thought, now: better be a farrier's wife than a gentleman's mistress."
Mercy did take her head "out of the cow" at this, and, for once, her cheek burned with anger; but the unwonted sentiment died before it could find words, and she said, quietly, "I need not be either, against my will."