“Now that’s a nonsense tale,” said the shepherd firmly. “I’ll not put up wi’ no such stories. If you and me be to walk out, and to—and to—carry on reg’lar same as we’ve a-made up our minds to do, you did ought to have more respect for I. So don’t ye be a-comin’ to I again wi’ such made-up tales.” The girl laughed again in a queer, little secret way that annoyed him still more. “There must be truth between us,” he said, almost harshly. “You must tell me the truth about everything.” He broke off, looking at her oddly; he did not intend to let her know how much he had found out for himself. She must confess everything to him of her own accord, and then he would stand by her through thick and thin. Ann-Car’line, however, did not seem in the least impressed; she went on singing to herself under her breath, glancing maliciously at Timothy from time to time. “I can’t help it if you don’t believe me,” said she, “and there’s nothin’ more as I can tell ye.” “Nothin’ at all?” enquired the shepherd sternly. He thought he saw her change colour, but she shook her head emphatically. “That’ll do,” said Timothy fiercely. “We’ve made a mistake, my girl, and ’tis best to say so straight out. If ye can look I in the face and tell I they things, ye b’ain’t the maid for I. Ye can find somebody else to keep company wi’. I’d sooner live lonesome all my days nor have a wife as wasn’t to be trusted; so I’ll bid ye good-day. But there’s one thing,” he added, turning round suddenly, “ye may find yourself in trouble sooner than ye think for, and ye may be glad enough to own up then. I’ll not be your sweetheart no more, but if ever you’re in trouble and will own up I’ll stand by ye.” She looked at him for a moment oddly, half-fearfully, but recovering herself, turned upon her heel, muttering something about a likely tale, coupled with certain ejaculations intended to prove her entire content with the actual condition of affairs, and her scorn of the recalcitrant lover. Timothy went home in high dudgeon, and taking out the watch gave it a little indignant shake. “I’ve a good mind to put thee back where I found thee,” said he. “Yes, it ’ud serve her right if I put thee back and took no more notice of either of ye.” But after a moment’s fierce reflection he put the watch back in his pocket again, and decided to wait. Days passed and became weeks; Timothy frequently met Ann-Car’line, greeting her with a surly word or two, to which she responded by a saucy nod; sometimes he would hear her singing in the lanes, and would pause to listen when he thought himself unnoticed; and on Sundays, though they no longer shared the same hymn-book, his eyes frequently wandered to her face, and he was forced to confess to himself that though he knew her to be an artful, untruthful little maid, she looked, as he had so often said, “like a angel.”