Sam walked along in silence, chewing a blade of grass which he had plucked from beneath the hedge; his broad chip hat was set somewhat at the back of his head, and his open sunburnt face, thus fully exposed to view, wore an expression of incredulity and dissatisfaction. “Ye don’t believe me, I see,” said Martha quickly. “Oh, I don’t say that. I b’lieve ye think you are speakin’ the truth—’tis as true as you heared it—’tisn’t as if you was tryin’ to make me believe as you’d seen the thing yourself.” “Well, then,” said Martha, with a flash in her black eyes, “I’ll be tellin’ you that, come next Midsummer Eve. I’ll go myself, and stand in church-porch, and maybe I’ll see Bob Ellery a-comin’ out.” “Bob Ellery!” ejaculated Sam, stopping short again, and throwing away his blade of grass. “Is it _him_ ye’re thinkin’ of lookin’ for?” “Why not?” said Martha, slightly raising her voice; “as well him as another.” “Well,” said Sam, striking the nailed heel of his heavy boot into the ground, “he’s just the one to be up to sich foolishness—the biggest sammy between this and Dorchester.” “I wouldn’t be makin’ free wi’ your own name,” retorted the girl sarcastically. “I know one sammy as ain’t so far off. But ye needn’t be turnin’ up your nose at Bob Ellery, Mr. Sam Bundy—him and me’s very thick, and I don’t like to hear my friends abused.” “Now look ye here, Martha,” said Sam, controlling his rising anger. “This here be real foolish talk between you and I, as has been a-walkin’ ever since Christmas. If you was to look for anybody a-comin’ out o’ church, it should be me!” “Oh, but you are much too grand to think o’ lettin’ your sperret do any sich thing. Bob bain’t so stuck up—he don’t set up for being no wiser than the rest of us. But as for you—if we was to spill the salt between us I don’t suppose you’d ever think o’ throwin’ a pinch over your shoulder.” “I don’t suppose I should,” he replied, bluntly. “You was brought up wi’ such notions!” she continued. “Your mother didn’t ever set ye on a donkey’s back wi’ your face to the tail, did she?” “I can’t call to mind as she did,” returned he, staring. “Then, ’tain’t her fault, nor yours neither, if ye didn’t die o’ the whooping cough,” cried Martha triumphantly. “’Twas the first thing as ever my mother did do wi’ the lot of us, except my little brother Walter, and he was the only one as ever took that complaint, and never looked up after—just withered away, one mid say, and died.” “Because he didn’t sit with his face to the ass’s tail,” said Sam, relaxing into a broad grin. “Ye did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself, Sam, to go a-sneerin’ like that—there be a cross on the donkey’s back.” Sam thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his corduroys, and paced beside her without speaking for a moment or two; then he turned to her with a good-humoured laugh:— “Believe what you like, my maid, only don’t ask me to say I do do it!”