But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the same chord of delicacy running through his mind that made his body feeble and weak. He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in whittling and carving uncouth heads on hazel-sticks in an out-house. But he positively avoided Michael, and shrunk away even from Susan. She was too much occupied to notice this at first. Michael pointed it out to her, saying, with a laugh,— “Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off lover and jealous of me, he looks so dark and downcast at me.” Michael spoke this jest out loud, and Willie burst into tears, and ran out of the house. “Let me go. Let me go!” said Susan (for her lover’s arm was round her waist). “I must go to him if he’s fretting. I promised mother I would!” She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. She sought in byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless winter-time there was no great concealment; up into the room where the wool was usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, sitting at bay, like some hunted creature, up behind the wood-stack. “What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?” asked she, breathless. “I did not know you would seek me. I’ve been away many a time, and no one has cared to seek me,” said he, crying afresh. “Nonsense,” replied Susan, “don’t be so foolish, ye little good-for-nought.” But she crept up to him in the hole he had made underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by him. “What for should folk seek after you, when you get away from them whenever you can?” asked she. “They don’t want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, he says I hinder more than I help. You used to like to have me with you. But now, you’ve taken up with Michael, and you’d rather I was away; and I can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. He’s got you to love him and that might serve him.” “But I love you, too, dearly, lad!” said she, putting her arm round his neck. “Which one of us do you like best?” said he, wistfully, after a little pause, putting her arm away, so that he might look in her face, and see if she spoke truth. She went very red. “You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask, nor for me to answer.” “But mother bade you love me!” said he, plaintively. “And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come betwixt thee and me, lad—ne’er a one of them. That I promise thee (as I promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide to have thee fretting, just because my heart is large enough for two.” “And thou’lt love me always?” “Always, and ever. And the more—the more thou’lt love Michael,” said she, dropping her voice.