“I’m not axin’ you nothin’ at all, I’m sure,” returned Martha indifferently, though again the tell-tale colour swept over cheek and brow. She stooped presently, and plucked an ox-eye daisy from beneath the hedge. “This year; next year; some time; never! This year—next year—some time—never—This year—next year—some time—never! _This_ year!—I wonder if ’tis to be wi’ Bob Ellery. Come, I’ll try his fortune.” She possessed herself of another daisy, and was about to resume her performance when Sam, laying his hand on hers, firmly imprisoned both the busy fingers and the blossom. “Martha,” he said, “there be some things a man can stand, and there be some things he can’t. Now I can’t stand hearing you carry on this ’ere kind o’ nonsense about Bob Ellery. It’s got to be one way or t’other—him or me. If it’s me jist gi’e me your word as ye’ll drop this ’ere talk o’ tryin’ your fortun’ wi’ him. If it’s him in earnest—I’ll bid you good evenin’.” Martha was proud as well as pretty, and resented the peremptory tone; she jerked away her hands, and tossed her head. “P’r’aps I won’t wait for you to say it, Mr. Bundy—p’r’aps I can say ‘Good evenin’’ jist so plain as ye can yourself. _Good evenin’_, Mr. Samuel Bundy. I wish ye a pleasant walk home, and hope ye may soon find a sweetheart clever enough to suit ye. Ye’d best ax schoolmissus—she bain’t much more nor fifty-four, and I reckon she’s not one to go a-waitin’ in church-porch to look for sperrets—I’ll tell ye later on who _I_ see on Midsummer Eve; but—I—think—I—know.” She had been dropping little ironical curtsies to him throughout this speech, and now walked away, plucking the leaves from her crushed daisy, and singing “I—think—I—know” until she had turned the corner of the lane. Sam stood looking after her until she was out of sight, and then, drawing a deep breath, began to move slowly homewards. “So that is the end!” he said to himself. “And I thought she was terrible fond of me. These maids—there bain’t no knowin’ where to have ’em!” * * * * * On the following Sunday the once tender lovers walked apart, and Sam invented no more pretexts for passing Martha’s home of a weekday evening as he had been wont to do, just for a glimpse of her in the doorway or at the window, or, as had not infrequently happened, standing accidentally by the gate. On these occasions he had been used to invite her to walk with him “just so far as the top of the lane;” it was, indeed, during the course of one of these little strolls that the quarrel had taken place. But now, though oddly enough just about that time of evening Martha was to be seen pretty often looking out of the window, or leaning against the doorpost, or even gazing absently up and down the lane from the garden gate, Sam Bundy passed that way no more.