At last she edged round on the sand, and he felt that she was looking at him.

“What’s the matter wi’ you?” she cried peevishly.  “You’re as dull as dull.  Can’t you say summat?”

John rolled round, squinting up at the pouting, blooming face.  “There’s not much to say, is there?  What’s the good of talkin’ if you’re ’appy?”

“I’m glad to hear you’re ’appy, I’m sure,” retorted Jinny somewhat mollified.  “I can’t say as you look it, though,” she added.

Words did not readily occur to John, but he made the best answer that was possible under the circumstances.  Throwing out his arm he drew Jinny’s face down to his and kissed it.

“Now do you believe I’m ’appy,” he said.

“Well, if you ar’n’t you ought to be,” said Jinny coquettishly.  “Did you see that cocklin’ wench, Jack?”

“Her as went by just now?” inquired John indifferently.  “Nay, I didn’t take much notice.”

“Hoo was a funny-lookin’ lass,” pursued Jinny.  “A bit silly, I think.  Hoo stood an’ hoo stared at us same as if we was wild beasts or summat.”

“Perhaps she wanted us to buy some of her cockles,” remarked John, hurriedly volunteering the first explanation that came into his head.

“Eh! very like hoo did.  My word, I wish I’d thought on axin’ her to let us ‘ave a quart—­I’m rale fond o’ cockles.  Could we run arter her, think ye, Jack?”

This was the very last thing which John wished to do, and in order to divert Jinny’s mind, he hastily proposed that they should hunt for cockles themselves.

“Nay,” she returned, “I’ll not go seechin’ for cockles—­I’ve got my weddin’ dress on, see, an’ my new boots an’ all.”

“Well, then, I will,” cried John eagerly.  “I need but to kick off my boots an’ socks, an’ turn up my trousers, an’ paddle down yon by the river; there are plenty hereabouts, I know.”

“Tide’s comin’ in—­you’d best be careful,” screamed Jinny as he bounded barefoot down the slope; but he was already out of earshot.

There sat Jinny on the sunny, wind-swept hill-top; her silk skirt carefully tucked up, and the embroidered frill of her starched white petticoat just resting on her sturdy, well-shod feet.  One plump hand, in its tight kid glove, toying with her posy of roses and “old man,” the other absently tapping John’s discarded foot-gear.  Her eyes followed the movements of the lithe young form that wandered hither and thither on the sandy expanse below; her lips were parted in a smile of idle content.  All at once a shadow fell across her, and, looking up, she beheld the strange cockle girl standing beside her with folded arms.  Jinny stared at her for a moment in astonishment from under the brim of her fine befeathered hat: 

“Have ye got any cockles to-day?” she inquired at length.

“Nay, I haven’t,” responded the girl rudely; “an’ if I had you shouldn’t ha’ none.”

“My word!” exclaimed Jinny angrily, “ye might as well keep a civil tongue i’ your ‘ead.  I don’t want none o’ your cockles, as it jest falls out—­my ’usband’s gone to get me some.”