“No, I should hope not,” I answered rashly; “she is not a mere cook-maid I should hope.”

“She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,” said Annie.

“She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,” I replied with great indignation.

“Oh, but look at Sally’s eyes!” cried my sister rapturously.

“Look at Lorna Doone’s,” said I; “and you would never look again at Sally’s.”

“Oh Lorna Doone.  Lorna Doone!” exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so:  “Lorna Doone is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody’s heart so.  Ah, I shall remember it; because it is so queer a name.  But stop, I had better write it down.  Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.”

“I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,” I answered her in my vexation, “and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly good-for-nothing baggage.  As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus, and add interest for keeping.”

“Oh no, John; oh no, John,” she begged me earnestly, being sobered in a moment.  “Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an insult.  Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even from Cousin Tom himself.”

“And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,” I answered very eagerly, knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me.

“Of course from little Lizzie,” said Annie, with some contempt; “a young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the knowledge of such subjects.  And besides, I should be very sorry if Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John.  Not a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those dreadful people.”

“Well,” I replied, “it is no use crying over spilt milk Annie.  You have my secret, and I have yours; and I scarcely know which of the two is likely to have the worst time of it, when it comes to mother’s ears.  I could put up with perpetual scolding but not with mother’s sad silence.”

“That is exactly how I feel, John.” and as Annie said it she brightened up, and her soft eyes shone upon me; “but now I shall be much happier, dear; because I shall try to help you.  No doubt the young lady deserves it, John.  She is not after the farm, I hope?”

“She!” I exclaimed; and that was enough, there was so much scorn in my voice and face.

“Then, I am sure, I am very glad,” Annie always made the best of things; “for I do believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fancy to our dairy-place, and the pattern of our cream-pans; and she asked so much about our meadows, and the colour of the milk—­”