“No!”
“Thinking of something else—eh?”
“Very likely,” said Isabel.
“Was it your new bonnet, my dear?”
Isabel laughed. “Women are not always thinking of their new bonnets,” she answered.
Old Sharon, to all appearance, dropped the subject there. He lifted his lean brown forefinger and pointed again—this time to a house at a short distance from them. “That’s a farmhouse, surely?” he said. “I’m thirsty after my roll down the hill. Do you think, Miss, they would give me a drink of milk?”
“I am sure they would,” said Isabel. “I know the people. Shall I go and ask them?”
“Thank you, my dear. One word more before you go. About the sealing of that letter? What could you have been thinking of while you were doing it?” He looked hard at her, and took her suddenly by the arm. “Was it your sweetheart?” he asked, in a whisper.
The question instantly reminded Isabel that she had been thinking of Hardyman while she sealed the letter. She blushed as the remembrance crossed her mind. Robert, noticing the embarrassment, spoke sharply to Old Sharon. “You have no right to put such a question to a young lady,” he said. “Be a little more careful for the future.”
“There! there! don’t be hard on me,” pleaded the old rogue. “An ugly old man like me may make his innocent little joke—eh, miss? I’m sure you’re too sweet-tempered to be angry when I meant no offense.. Show me that you bear no malice. Go, like a forgiving young angel, and ask for the milk.”