Millie.  O I’ve laid awake of nights and my tears have wetted the pillow all over so that I’ve had to turn it t’other side up.

Annet.  And Giles has never written to you, nor sent a sign nor nothing?

Millie.  Your brother Giles was never very grand with the pen, Annet.  But, O, he’s none the worse for that.

Annet.  Millie, I never cared for to question you, but how was it when you and he did part, one with t’other?

Millie.  I did give him my ring, Annet—­secret like—­when we were walking in the wood.

Annet.  What, the one with the white stones to it?

Millie.  Yes, grandmother’s ring, that she left me.  And I did say to him—­if ever I do turn false to you and am like to wed another, Giles—­look you at these white stones.

Annet.  Seven of them, there were, Millie.

Millie.  And the day that I am like to wed another, Giles, I said to him, the stones shall darken.  But you’ll never see that day. [She begins to cry.

Annet.  Don’t you give way, Millie, for, look you, ’tis very likely that Giles has forgotten you for all his fine words, and Andrew,—­ well, Andrew he’s as grand a suitor as ever maid had.  And ’tis Andrew you have got to wed, you know.

Millie.  Andrew, Andrew—­I’m sick at the very name of him.

Annet.  See the fine house you’ll live in.  Think on the grand parlour that you’ll sit in all the day with a servant to wait on you and naught but Sunday clothes on your back.

Millie.  I’d sooner go in rags with Giles at the side of me.

Annet.  Come, you must hearten up.  Andrew will soon be here.  And Uncle says that you have got to give him his answer to-night for good and all.

Millie.  O I cannot see him—­I’m wearied to death of Andrew, and that’s the very truth it is.

Annet.  O Millie—­I wonder how ’twould feel to be you for half-an-hour and to have such a fine suitor coming to me and asking for me to say Yes.

Millie.  O I wish ’twas you and not me that he was after, Annet.

Annet.  ’Tisn’t likely that anyone such as Master Andrew will ever come courting a poor girl like me, Millie.  But I’d dearly love to know how ’twould feel.

[Millie raises her head and looks at her cousin for a few minutes in silence, then her face brightens.

Millie.  Then you shall, Annet.

Annet.  Shall what, Mill?

Millie.  Know how it feels.  Look here—­’Tis sick to death I am with courting, when ’tis from the wrong quarter, and if I’m to wed Andrew come next month, I’ll not be tormented with him before that time,—­so ’tis you that shall stop and talk with him this evening, Annet, and I’ll slip out to the woods and gather flowers.

Annet.  How wild and unlikely you do talk, Mill.