“You are a confusing form of little girl!” I said, laughing in my turn; “and most confusing when you jest.” “Yes; when I jest.” This in a way of funny dryness. “Especially, when I jest. Still, you are jealous; you watch me all the time. Do not look frightened; I do not object to jealousy.” Peg finished in a mirthful ripple. “I would not see you walk into harm,” said I, meekly. Perhaps I was thus meek because the small hectorer would stir up confusion in my bosom; and she, cool, assured, mistress of situations it was her merry humor to create. “You would not see me walk into harm,” she repeated. “But you are jealous of my husband. Is my husband 'harm?'” “Do you not complain for that he does not watch you?” This I said desperately. It is not a hand's-breadth behind a miracle how a girl--and you a steady man of years, and twice her age--will wrap you in perplexities like a parcel. It was so with me; the witch would wind and unwind me as though I were a ball of knitting-yarn! She would darn and patch her laughter with me! “Watch-dog,” said Peg, severely, “watchdog, you know you are jealous! And how long do you count it since I told you that jealously was but love turned upside down?” This came off trippingly, and with superior wave of wrist, as settling a thing beyond debate. Then with a tinge of tenderness: “Watch-dog, being so trusted, what would you do for me?” “I would be a slave for you,” said I, simply enough, “if it were to do you good.” “Qualification,” cried she, with a vicious stamp of her foot, “always qualification!” Then mimicking me: “'If it were to do me good.' Good!--good!--what a desert of weariness in four letters! If I were to discover some unnamed desolation, some barren waste, one arid, gray, dry, dead--especially dead--I'd turn geographer and call it 'Good.'” Peg was quiet after this upheaval, which was with it all but a surface impatience and nothing deep, and uttering never a word, gazed over against the wall. On my side, I made no return; for I was grown used to her whims, and knew they were not to be argued with. And most fatal of all was agreement. A best course would be to reply nothing, whether of denial or comment or endorsement, but let Peg talk her talk out unrestrained. However, catching the fashion of her with the fringe of my eye as I went for more ink on my pen, and observing her face to seem over sad and considerate, I spoke up to cheer her. “And now what are your thoughts?” said I. “I was just wanting to be a man, that's all.” And Peg stared straight ahead as though in a muse. Then starting up, and with a rush of vivacity: “Heigh ho! and now if I were, I'll wager I'd be as dull as the others--as dull as you, watch-dog.” Then, changing the tune of it, but keeping to her dash and fling: “So you would be my slave! Come, let me mark you for my slave!”