all blurred by the
evening dusk. She looked about her helplessly for a means of escape.

'Miss Rosa,' he continued, in a husky voice, 'can ye na coom t' think on
me? Think ye, I've bin waitin' nigh upon two year for ye. I've watched
ye tak oop, first wi' this young fellar, and then wi' that, till
soomtimes my heart's fit t' burst. Many a day, oop on t' fell-top, t'
thought o' ye's nigh driven me daft, and I've left my shepherdin' jest
t' set on a cairn in t' mist, picturin' an' broodin' on yer face. Many
an evenin' I've started oop t' vicarage, wi' t' resolution t' speak
right oot t' ye; but when it coomed t' point, a sort o' timidity seemed
t' hould me back, I was that feared t' displease ye. I knaw I'm na
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
softening of his tone. 'There's nought for ye t' cry ower.'

She sank on to the stones, passionately sobbing in hysterical and
defenceless despair. Anthony stood a moment, gazing at her in clumsy
perplexity: then, coming close to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and
said gently:

'Coom, lass, what's trouble? Ye can trust me.'

She shook her head faintly.

'Ay, but ye can though,' he asserted, firmly. 'Come,