again,
and, pipe in mouth, drove at a quick trot over the slope of the hill, and
disappeared.

So I agreed to await Milly's return while she ran home, and rejoined me
where I was. Away she ran, in high spirits, and I wandered listlessly about
in search of some convenient spot to sit down upon, for I was a little
tired.

She had not been gone five minutes, when I heard a step approaching, and
looking round, saw the dog-cart close by, the horse browsing on the short
grass, and Dudley Ruthyn within a few paces of me.

'Ye see, Maud, I've bin thinkin' why you're so vexed wi' me, an' I thought
I'd jest come back an' ask ye what I may a' done to anger ye so; there's no
sin in that, I think--is there?'

'I'm not angry. I did not say so. I hope that's enough,' I said, startled;
and, notwithstanding my speech, _very_ angry, for I felt instinctively that
Milly's despatch homeward was a mere trick, and I the dupe of this coarse
stratagem.

'Well then, if ye baint angry, so much the better, Maud. I only want to
know why you're afeard o' me. I never struck a man foul, much less hurt a
girl, in my days; besides, Maud, I likes ye too well to hurt ye. Dang it,
lass, you're my cousin, ye know, and cousins is all'ays together and lovin'
like, an' none says again' it.'

'I've nothing to explain--there _is_ nothing to explain. I've been quite
friendly,' I said, hurriedly.

'_Friendly!_ Well, if there baint a cram! How can ye think it friendly,
Maud, when ye won't a'most shake hands wi' me? It's enough to make a fellah
sware, or cry a'most. Why d'ye like aggravatin' a poor devil? Now baint
ye an ill-natured little puss, Maud, an' I likin' ye so well? You're the
prettiest lass in Derbyshire; there's nothin' I wouldn't do for ye.'

And he backed his declaration with an oath.

'Be so good, then, as to re-enter your dog-cart and drive away,' I replied,
very much incensed.

'Now, there it is again! Ye can't speak me civil. Another fellah'd fly out,
an' maybe kiss ye for spite; but I baint that sort, I'm all for coaxin' and
kindness, an' ye won't let me. What _be_ you drivin' at, Maud?'

'I think I've said very plainly, sir, that I wish to be alone. You've
_nothing_ to say, except utter nonsense, and I've heard quite enough. Once
for all, I beg, sir, that you will be so good as to leave me.'

'Well, now, look here, Maud; I'll do anything you like--burn me if I
don't--if you'll only jest be kind to me, like cousins should. What did