At this Skelton by an impulse of honour thought to pass out of ear-shot, and then another motive held him listening.  He thought of the ghostly thing he had seen by this girl, of the wild tale the ploughman had told.  The passion of investigation, which had grown lusty by long exercise, rose within him triumphing over his personal inclinations.  Too much was at stake to miss a chance like this.  Honour in this situation seemed like a flimsy sentiment.  He waited for the answer of the girl’s lover with breathless interest.

The man was evidently a fine young fellow, tall and strong, and when he spoke it was not without a touch of manly indignation in his tone.

’If you love me true, Jen, I can’t think what the meaning of your doings is.  It’s two years since you came to live in the glen, and you can’t say as you’ve not understood my meaning plain since the first I saw you; it’s to take you to church and take care of you as a woman ought to be took care of by a man.  And you know I could do it, Jen, for my wages is good; but you’ve shied an’ shied whenever you’ve seen me, and baulked an’ baulked when you couldn’t shy, so as no skittish mare is half so bad.’

‘Because, Johnnie, I wouldn’t ha’ yer heart broke the way mine is.  I loved ye too true for that.’

’But what’s to hinder that we may be like other folks is?  There’s troubles comes to all, but we can bear them like the rest.  What’s to hinder?  I thought there was some one else, an’ that you didn’t like.  God knows, Jen, if that ’ad been the way, I’d never ’ev troubled you again; but last night when we heard your mother was took bad, an’ mother an’ me stepped round to see what we could do, an’ you let on as you did ’ave a caring for me, I says,—­“Let’s be cried in the church,” so as your mother could die happy, if die she must.  But when you says, “no,” and as you’d meet me here an’ tell me why, I was content to wait an’ come here; an’ now what I want to know is—­why? what’s to hinder, Jen?’

‘Ye knows as well as me the tales about me, Johnnie.’

‘Tales!’ said the young man passionately; ’what tales?  All along I’ve knocked down any man as ‘ud say a word against you.’

’Ay, but the women, Johnnie; ye couldn’t knock them down; that’s why a woman’s tale’s allus the worst.’

‘An’ what can they say? the worst is that if any man comes nigh you for a kiss or the like o’ that—­and no offence, Jen, but you’re an uncommon tidy girl to kiss—­he sees another man betwixt himself an’ you.  Fools they be to believe such trash!  If you’d give me the leave—­which I’m not the fellow to take without you say the word—­I’d soon show as no shadder ‘ud come betwixt.’

He came a step nearer, reproachful in his frank respect, as if he would claim the liberty he asked; but she drew back, holding up her hand to ward him off.

‘I believe you half believe the nonsense yourself, Jen.’

’Heaven knows, Johnnie, I’ve reason to b’lieve it weel, none knows better ner me.  It’s that I’ve comed to tell ye to-night; an’ there’s nowt fur it but we mun part.  An’ if I trouble yer peace staying here i’ the glen, I’ll go away out o’ yer sight.  It wasn’t a wish o’ mine to bring ye trouble.  None knows better ner me how hard trouble’s to bear.’