"Eh! very like hoo did. My word, I wish I'd thought on axin' her to
let us 'ave a quart--I'm rale fond o' cockles. Could we run arter her,
think ye, Jack?"

This was the very last thing which John wished to do, and in order to
divert Jinny's mind, he hastily proposed that they should hunt for
cockles themselves.

"Nay," she returned, "I'll not go seechin' for cockles--I've got my
weddin' dress on, see, an' my new boots an' all."

"Well, then, I will," cried John eagerly. "I need but to kick off my
boots an' socks, an' turn up my trousers, an' paddle down yon by the
river; there are plenty hereabouts, I know."

"Tide's comin' in--you'd best be careful," screamed Jinny as he
bounded barefoot down the slope; but he was already out of earshot.

There sat Jinny on the sunny, wind-swept hill-top; her silk skirt
carefully tucked up, and the embroidered frill of her starched white
petticoat just resting on her sturdy, well-shod feet. One plump hand,
in its tight kid glove, toying with her posy of roses and "old man,"
the other absently tapping John's discarded foot-gear. Her eyes
followed the movements of the lithe young form that wandered hither
and thither on the sandy expanse below; her lips were parted in a
smile of idle content. All at once a shadow fell across her, and,
looking up, she beheld the strange cockle girl standing beside her
with folded arms. Jinny stared at her for a moment in astonishment
from under the brim of her fine befeathered hat: