‘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. Thistlewood,’ she answered, looking up at him, ‘but I don’t like you in a marrying way, and I never shall.’ ‘As for never shall,’ said he, ‘that remains to be seen.’ He straightened himself as he spoke, and releasing the walking-stick with his left hand put the point of it softly, slowly, and strongly down upon the gravel, dinting the ground pretty deeply with the pressure. ‘Let’s look at it a little further,’ he added. ‘It is of no use,’ the girl answered pleadingly. ‘It hurts us both, and it can do no good at all.’ ‘Let’s look at it a bit further,’ he said again. ‘This day month you said there was nobody you’d seen you liked better than me. Is that true still?’ ‘It is quite true,’ she answered, ‘but it makes no difference.’ ‘That remains to be seen,’ said John Thistlewood again. ‘And as for not liking me in a marrying way, that’s a thing a maid can’t be supposed to know much of.’ He waited doggedly as if to hear her deny this, but she made no answer. ‘You’ve known me all your life, Bertha, and you never knew anything again me.’ ‘Never,’ she said, almost eagerly. ‘I’m well-to-do,’ he went on stolidly, but with all his force, as if he were pushing against a wall too heavy to be moved by any pressure he could bring to bear against it, and yet was resolute to have it down. ‘I’m not too old to be a reasonable match for a maid of your years. You’ve had my heart this five years I waited two afore I spoke at all There’s a many--not that I speak it in a bragging way--as would be willing enough to have me.’ ‘It’s a pity you can’t take a fancy to one of them,’ she said, with perfect simplicity and good faith.