“There, now, there,” said he soothingly, “ye mustn’t be onreasonable, ye know. I shouldn’t be actin’ right by ye if I was to take ye from yer ’ome afore I’d somethin’ to keep ye on. I ’aven’t acted just as I should ha’ done by ye, may be, but I can make that right. Only ye must let me go and work for ye. If I was a ’cute un like my brother Ben, I’d say to the Guv’nor: ‘Give me the bit o’ money what’d be mine some day, and let me go and take my own chance wi’ it.’ But it’d be trickin’ ’im to do that for to marry the darter o’ the man as ’e ’ates—and I ain’t a bad lot. No, I’ll make my own way, and we’ll be man and wife, fair and open, and please God father ’ll come to love ye too—some day. ’Tain’t in nature as both on ’em shouldn’t forgive when it’s done. Ay, we’ll be man and wife come Lady Day, Bess. I swear it, and it shall be done square. I ain’t a bad lot, dear, and I’ll make ye a good ’usband, s’elp me God.” His voice shook a little, but he lifted one hand to the moon that was bright on them for a moment, while he strained her wildly to his breast with the other; and she felt the purpose in him and bowed to the inevitable. But her tears flowed softly, and though he stroked her cheek to dry them, they flowed still and her body shook with her grief. “Tell me ye’ve faith in me, dear?” whispered he. “Tell me ye feel as ye can trust me?” She did not answer; the sobs that she strove against would not be stilled. “Why, Bess!” whispered he again, half frightened. “Ye’ll never be afraid to trust me?” Then she understood and raised her head. “Trust ye?” she echoed bravely, and her eyes shone in the moonlight. “Trust ye? D’ye think I take ye for a blackguard?” He kissed her passionately and she dried her eyes. “It ain’t that,” said she, and tried to smile. “It’s only as Lady Day’s a long way off.” The moon had topped the tallest tree that bent and quivered in the wind; she might have been hurrying herself, so wildly the clouds hurried past her, so cruelly the moments hurried onward. “They’ll be waitin’ supper for me,” said the girl with a little shudder, looking up at the trees. “Father’s been to market. He was to be late ’ome, but ’e’ll ’ave been back long afore this. Oh dear!” “Well, ye mustn’t notice ’im too much,” declared he bravely. “’E won’t plague ye, if ye stand up agin’ ’im. Ye must be a bit saucier. I’m sure ye used to be saucy enough to me when first I fancied ye!” “That was ’cos I knowed ye loved me,” smiled she, and then they kissed again. But they couldn’t keep the sauciness up, and the next thing she said was said sadly enough. “It’s near six months to Lady Day,” she whimpered. “And I sha’n’t ’ave no news of ye till then!” “I’ll write when I get a bit settled,” he said. “I’d never get the letter,” moaned she. “Ye must go to the Post-office for it,” he answered.