“I know them,” he said bitterly, “and a rough lot they are.  They leave me no peace; they give me plenty of their impudence too, if it’s any comfort to you, Sally, to know that.”

“Eh dear!” cried Sally in amazement.  “Why, whatever can they find amiss wi’ you?”

The blue eyes were upturned with such genuine and admiring astonishment that John could not but be touched and flattered.  In this actual mood, moreover, when his spirit was still smarting from the remembrance of the manner in which scornful Jinny had turned him into a laughing-stock, Sally’s respectful appreciation was doubly sweet to him.

“I’ll bring ye th’ cockles if ye’ll coom up th’ lane at dinner-time,” she went on.  “I’ll stand near the white gate.  Coom, I’ll show ye.”

She sprang up and began quickly to ascend the hill.  Her figure had the erectness common to those accustomed to carry burdens on their heads, and also a grace and freedom of movement which impressed John with vague astonishment.  As she turned upon the summit to point out the place of meeting, her face sparkling with animation, her eyes alight and eager, the golden coronet of hair radiant in the mellow glow, he gave a little gasp of amazement.  The girl was beautiful!  What a pity she should lead such a life!

“Yonder, see,” she continued.  “Aye—­why do ye stare at me that way?”

“Sally,” said practical, plain—­spoken John, “I’m lookin’ at you because I think you’re real handsome, an’ I think it’s a terrible pity for ye to be traipsin’ about like this.  Why don’t you leave your uncle and aunt and go to live with decent people—­and put on shoes and stockings?” he added severely.

The girl gazed at him in amazement.

“Whatever put that i’ your ’ead?  Decent folks wouldn’t have nought to say to me.  I’d as soon go cocklin’ as do onythin’ else—­an’ I couldn’t do wi’ shoes an’ stockin’s.”

“Didn’t you ever go to school?”

“Nay, scarce at all.  We was wonderful clever ’bout that.  We shifted an’ shifted an’ gi’ed ’em all th’ slip.”

“Don’t you go to church on Sundays?”

“Eh dear!  I wonder what they’d say if me an’ Aunt Nancy an’ Uncle Jim was to go paddlin’ in among all the fine folks—­wi’ bare feet an’ all.”

She laughed grimly.

“Will yo’ coom yonder for the cockles?” she inquired presently.

John nodded, and, turning, she ran down the hill, fleet as a hare, and disappeared round its curved base.

John walked homewards thoughtfully, his own troubles quite forgotten in the consideration of Sally’s lot.  All that evening, and even during his work on the following morning, he pondered over it, and it was with a portentous face that he betook himself at noon to the trysting-place.  So punctual was he that he stood there for some minutes before a musical cry of “Cockles! fine cockles!” came ringing down the lane, and presently Sally appeared, the basket poised upon her head throwing a deep shadow over her face, but the curves of her figure strongly defined by the brilliant summer sunlight.  Halting by the gate she balanced her basket on the upper bar, and immediately measured out a quart by way of greeting.