ANNET. [_Beginning to speak in a gentle voice and ending sharply_.] O I’m so sorry—No—I mean—’Tis your own fault, Andrew. ANDREW. But I would sooner take blows from you than sweet words from another, Millie. ANNET. I could never find it in my heart to—I mean, ’tis as well that you should get used to blows, seeing we’re to be wed, Andrew. ANDREW. Then ’tis to be! O Millie, this is brave news—Why, I do scarcely know whether I be awake or dreaming. ANNET. [_Very sadly_.] Very likely you’ll be glad enough to be dreaming a month from now, poor Andrew. ANDREW. [_Drawing nearer_.] I am brave, Millie, now that you speak to me so kind and gentle, and I’ll ask you to name the day. ANNET. [_Shrinking back_.] O ’twill be a very long distance from now, Andrew. ANDREW. Millie, it seems to be your pleasure to take up my heart and play with it same as a cat does with the mouse. ANNET. [_Becoming gay and hard in her manner_.] Your heart, Andrew? ’Twill go all the better afterwards if ’tis tossed about a bit first. ANDREW. Put an end to this foolishness, Mill, and say when you’ll wed me. ANNET. [_Warding him off with her hand_.] You shall have my answer in a new song Andrew, which I have been learning. [ANDREW _sits down despondently and prepares to listen_. ANNET. Now hark you to this, Andrew, and turn it well over in your mind. [_She begins to sing_: Say can you plough me an acre of land Sing Ivy leaf, Sweet William and Thyme. Between the sea and the salt sea strand And you shall be a true lover of mine? [_A slight pause_. ANNET _looks questioningly at_ ANDREW, _who turns away with a heavy sigh_. ANNET. [_Singing_.] Yes, if you plough it with one ram’s horn Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme And sow it all over with one peppercorn And you shall be a true lover of mine. ANDREW. ’Tis all foolishness. ANNET. [_Singing_.] Say can you reap with a sickle of leather Sing Ivy Leaf, Sweet William and Thyme And tie it all up with a Tom-tit’s feather And you shall be a true lover of mine. ANDREW. [_Rises up impatiently_.] I can stand no more. You’ve danced upon my heart till ’tis fairly brittle, and ready to be broke by a feather. ANNET. [_Very gently_.] O Andrew, I’ll mend your heart one day. ANDREW. Millie, the sound of those words has mended it already. ANNET. [_In a harder voice_.] But very likely there’ll be a crack left to it always. [FARMER DANIEL _and_ ELIZABETH _come into the room_. DANIEL. Well my boy, well Millie? ANDREW. [_Boldly_.] ’Tis for a month from now. DANIEL. Bless my soul. Hear that, Mother? Hear that? ELIZABETH. I’m not deaf, Father. DANIEL. [_Shaking_ ANDREW’S _hand_.] Ah my boy, I knowed as you’d bring the little maid to the senses of she. ELIZABETH. Millie has not shown any backwardness in clothing herself as though for church.