"Nay, now, be not displeased," said she, gently enough. "I am not unthankful; I think well of your kindness, but it were still better done if you were to change your intention and give the spaniel to one that would have a gentler charge over it, and think none the less of it, as I can vouch for. Pray you give it to Prudence."
"A discarded gift is not worth the passing on," said he; and as they were now come quite near to the town, where there was a dividing of ways, he stopped as though he would shake hands and depart.
"Will you not go on to the house? You have not seen my father since his coming home," she said.
"No, not to-night, Judith," he said. "Doubtless he is still busy, and I have affairs elsewhere."
She glanced at him with one of those swift keen glances of hers.
"Where go you to spend the evening, if I may make so bold?" she said.
"Not to the ale-house, as you seem to suspect," he answered, with just a trifle of bitterness; and then he took the string to lead away the spaniel, and he bade her farewell—in a kind of half-hearted and disappointed and downcast way—and left.
She looked after him a second or so, as she fastened a glove-button that had got loose. And then she sighed as she turned away.
"Sweetheart Willie," said she, putting her hand softly on the boy's shoulder, as he walked beside her, "I think you said you loved me?"
"Why, you know I do, Cousin Judith," said he.