’Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it’s half the almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?’

‘Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?’ I asked coldly.

’They’ll keep, Maud, never mind ’em; it be you I want to see—­it be you I wor thinkin’ on a’ the time.  I tell ye, lass, I’m all’ays a thinkin’ on ye.’

’I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time.  I don’t think it is respectful,’ I said, a little sharply.

’If ye bid me go I’d a’most go, but I could na quite; there’s nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep’ leaving you.’

‘And that,’ I said, with a petulant flush, ’is the only thing on earth I would ask you to do.’

‘Blessed if you baint a blushin’, Maud,’ he drawled, with an odious grin.

His stupidity was proof against everything.

‘It is too bad!’ I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and mimic stamp.

‘Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye’re angry wi’ me now, cos ye think I got into mischief—­ye do, Maud; ye know’t, ye buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye’re ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; ‘tisn’t fair.’

‘I don’t understand you, sir; and I beg that you’ll leave me.’

‘Now, didn’t I tell ye about leavin’ ye, Maud? ’tis the only thing I can’t compass for yer sake.  I’m jest a child in yere hands, I am, ye know.  I can lick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, by George!’—­(his oaths were not really so mild)—­’ye see summat o’ that t’other day.  Well, don’t be vexed, Maud; ‘twas all along o’ you; ye know, I wor a bit jealous, ’appen; but anyhow I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yer hands.’

’I wish you’d go away.  Have you nothing to do, and no one to see?  Why can’t you leave me alone, sir?’

’’Cos I can’t, Maud, that’s jest why; and I wonder, Maud, how can you be so ill-natured, when you see me like this; how can ye?’

‘I wish Milly would come,’ said I peevishly, looking toward the door.

’Well, I’ll tell you how it is, Maud.  I may as well have it out.  I like you better than any lass that ever I saw, a deal; you’re nicer by chalks; there’s none like ye—­there isn’t; and I wish you’d have me.  I ha’n’t much tin—­father’s run through a deal, he’s pretty well up a tree, ye know; but though I baint so rich as some folk, I’m a better man, ’appen; and if ye’d take a tidy lad, that likes ye awful, and ’id die for your sake, why here he is.’

‘What can you mean, sir?’ I exclaimed, rising in indignant bewilderment.

‘I mean, Maud, if ye’ll marry me, you’ll never ha’ cause to complain; I’ll never let ye want for nout, nor gi’e ye a wry word.’

‘Actually a proposal!’ I ejaculated, like a person speaking in a dream.

I stood with my hand on the back of a chair, staring at Dudley; and looking, I dare say, as stupefied as I felt.