ANNET. What, the one with the white stones to it? MILLIE. Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me. And I did say to him—if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, Giles—look you at these white stones. ANNET. Seven of them, there were, Millie. MILLIE. And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, the stones shall darken. But you’ll never see that day. [_She begins to cry_. ANNET. Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—well, Andrew he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had. And ’tis Andrew you have got to wed, you know. MILLIE. Andrew, Andrew—I’m sick at the very name of him. ANNET. See the fine house you’ll live in. Think on the grand parlour that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and naught but Sunday clothes on your back. MILLIE. I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me. ANNET. Come, you must hearten up. Andrew will soon be here. And Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all. MILLIE. O I cannot see him—I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s the very truth it is. ANNET. O Millie—I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say Yes. MILLIE. O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, Annet. ANNET. ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come courting a poor girl like me, Millie. But I’d dearly love to know how ’twould feel. [MILLIE _raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in silence_, _then her face brightens_. MILLIE. Then you shall, Annet. ANNET. Shall what, Mill? MILLIE. Know how it feels. Look here—’Tis sick to death I am with courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if I’m to wed Andrew come next month, I’ll not be tormented with him before that time,—so ’tis you that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out to the woods and gather flowers. ANNET. How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill. MILLIE. In the dusk he’ll never know that ’tisn’t me. Being cousins, we speak after the same fashion, and in the shape of us there’s not much that’s amiss. ANNET. But in the clothing of us, Mill—why, ’tis a grand young lady that you look—whilst I— MILLIE. [_Taking up the silken cloak_.] Here—put this over your gown, Annet. ANNET. [_Standing up_.] I don’t mind just trying it on, like. MILLIE. [_Fastening it_.] There—and now the bonnet, with the veil pulled over the face. [_She ties the bonnet and arranges the veil on_ ANNET. MILLIE. [_Standing back and surveying her cousin_.] There, Annet, there May, who is to tell which of us ’tis? MAY. [_Coming forward_.] O I should never know that ’twasn’t you, Cousin Mill.