g it to fall
with a clanking noise behind him, tramped across the hollow-resounding
boards.

At this sudden break upon the rural stillness--for, in spite of the
chorus of the birds and the farmyard noises which mingled with it, the
general effect was somehow of stillness and solitude--the girl looked
round at the new-comer, drew herself up from her lounging attitude,
placed her hands behind her and there re-folded them, and stood waiting,
with an added flush of colour on her cheek. The new-comer strode along
in a kind of awkward resoluteness, looking straight at the girl with a
glance which appeared to embarrass her a little, though she returned it
frankly enough.

'Here I am, you see,' said the new-comer, halting before her.

He was tallish, well-made, and of middle age. His expression was
a trifle dogged, and for a man who came love-making he looked less
prepossessing than he himself might have wished.

'Good afternoon, Mr. Thistlewood,' said the girl, in a tone which a
sensitive man might have thought purposely defensive.

'Is it yes or no to-day, Bertha?' asked Mr. Thistlewood.

'It has always been no,' she answered, looking down.

'Oh,' he answered, 'I'm perfectly well aware of that. It always has been
no up till now, but that's no reason why it should be no to-day. And if
it's no to-day that's no reason why it should be no again this day three
months. Maids change their minds, my dear.'

'It is a pity you should waste your time, Mr. Thistlewood,' said Bertha,
still looking down.

'As for wasting my time,' returned John Thistle-wood, 'that's a thing as
few can charge me with as a general rule. And in this particular case,
you see, I can't help myself. The day I see you married I shall make up
my mind to leave you alone until such time as you might happen to be a
widow, and if that should come to pass I should reckon myself free to
come again.'

'It has always been no,' said Bertha. 'It is no to-day. It will always
be no.'

The words in themselves were sufficiently decisive, and the voice,
though it had something soft and regretful in it, sounded almost as
final as the words.

'Let's look at it a bit, my dear,' said John Thistle-wood, grasping in
both hands the thick walking-stick he carried, and pressing it firmly
against his thighs as he leaned a little forward and looked down upon
her. 'Why is it no? And if it's no again to-day, why is it always going
to be no?'

'I like you very well, Mr. Thist