scholar, an' mabbe ye think I'm rough-mannered. I knaw I've spoken
sharply to ye once or twice lately. But it's jest because I'm that mad
wi' love for ye: I jest canna help myself soomtimes--'

He waited, peering into her face. She could see the beads of sweat above
his bristling eyebrows: the damp had settled on his sandy beard: his
horny fingers were twitching at the buttons of his black Sunday coat.

She struggled to summon a smile; but her under-lip quivered, and her
large dark eyes filled slowly with tears.

And he went on:

'Ye've coom t' mean jest everything to me. Ef ye will na hev me, I care
for nought else. I canna speak t' ye in phrases: I'm jest a plain,
unscholarly man: I canna wheedle ye, wi' cunnin' after t' fashion o'
toon folks. But I can love ye wi' all my might, an' watch over ye, and
work for ye better than any one o' em--'

She was crying to herself, silently, while he spoke. He noticed nothing,
however: the twilight hid her face from him.

'There's nought against me,' he persisted. 'I'm as good a man as any one
on 'em. Ay, as good a man as any one on 'em,' he repeated defiantly,
raising his voice.

'It's impossible, Mr. Garstin, it's impossible. Ye've been very kind to
me--' she added, in a choking voice.

'Wa dang it, I didna mean t' mak ye cry, lass,' he exclaimed, with a