“But we’ll make it right now, if so be as ye’re willin’,” said he. And still as she said nothing, he came closer, and tried to put his arm round her waist. Then she sprang back, her eyes more than ever startled. She was slender, but she was strong, and she gave him such a thud in the chest as sent him reeling against the bank. “Keep your distance, if you please,” panted she. “I don’t want none o’ that. Ye’ve been hearin’ tales o’ me, and ye’ve thought ... but—well, there ye’re mistaken.” He picked up his cap, which had fallen off, and stood with it in his hand. “I don’t know what ye mean,” he said, a trifle sullenly. “I ain’t ’eard no tales of ye. But I’m sorry I angered ye.” “I ain’t angry,” said she, and she spoke impassively, her sudden fire quenched as it was born. “Only I don’t want no courtin’.” “I don’t think ye understand me,” said he, more softly. “I mean honourable by ye. I want ye to stand up afore the parson wi’ me.” She gave a start, but she did not look at him, nor did she utter a word. Behind her head in the gap of the trees the huge arms of the windmill made a black cross on the luminous sky where the reflections of the afterglow were fading into a steely blue. “I don’t want to git married,” said she at last, without lifting her eyes. He looked at her in doubt. Then he said as though with a sudden thought: “It’s _you_ that’s ’eard tales o’ _me_, I’m thinkin’! But I’m comin’ to that. I’ve been wed afore, and I’ve a brat—a boy. But I ’oped ye wouldn’t let that stand in my way.” She had looked up for a moment, but had as quickly looked away again, and, after waiting a little, he went on: “You said just now you’d no ’ome. It ain’t comfortable for a young maid to ’ave no ’ome, and I’d work to give ye as good a one as most.” “I don’t want no ’ome,” said she at last, sullenly. He sighed a little. “It’s the brat ye’re afeard on,” murmured he sadly, shaking his head. “No it _ain’t_ then,” cried she quickly, almost fiercely. “I could love a brat well enough.” She stopped short, and if he could have distinguished her face in the dark he would have seen it flush hot and red. But he could not, and she moved away from him—moved away, but came back again. “There,” she said half surlily, “ye’ve got to know, and I’d as lief tell ye myself. I’ve ’ad a brat o’ my own,” and she looked away quickly. For a moment he did not answer, then he seized her wrist roughly. “What, you’re married then?” he muttered. “Well, ’pon my word, I think ye might ha’ told a man when ye see’d as ’e were sweet on ye.” She snatched her hand away. “I’m _not_ married,” she cried roughly. There was silence, but as he did not speak, she had to go on. “I think ye might make shift to see,” said she angrily. “O’ course a girl don’t want to go a-talkin’ of it.” She caught her breath, but added quickly in the same tone as before: “For ye could ha’ knowed I shouldn’t be such a cheat as not to tell—when ye was goin’ to be’ave honourable to _me_.”