'I think I must ask you to let go my hand, as I can't continue my work,' I
said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little.

'Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, 'tain't in my heart to refuse ye nout. I
a'bin to Wolverhampton, lass--jolly row there--and run over to Leamington;
a'most broke my neck, faith, wi' a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would
na care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, 'appen, jest a little,'
he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent.

'Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it's half the
almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?'

'Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?' I
asked coldly.

'_They'll_ keep, Maud, never mind 'em; it be you I want to see--it be you
I wor thinkin' on a' the time. I tell ye, lass, I'm all'ays a thinkin' on
ye.'

'I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say,
some time. I don't think it is respectful,' I said, a little sharply.

'If ye bid me go I'd a'most go, but I could na quite; there's nout on earth
I would na do for you, Maud, excep' leaving you.'

'And that,' I said, with a petulant flush, 'is the only thing on earth I
would ask you to do.'

'Blessed if you baint a blushin', Maud,' he drawled, with an odious grin.

His stupidity was proof against everything.

'It is _too_ bad!' I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and
mimic stamp.

'Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye're angry wi' me now, cos ye think
I got into mischief--ye do, Maud; ye know't, ye buxsom little fool, down
there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye're ready to turn me off again
the minute I come back; 'tisn't fair.'

'I don't _understand_ you, sir; and I _beg_ that you'll leave me.'

'Now, didn't I tell ye about leavin' ye, Maud? 'tis the only thing I can't
compass for yer sake. I'm jest a child in yere hands, I am, ye know. I can
lick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, by George!'--(his oaths were not
really so mild)--'ye see summat o' that t'other day. Well, don't be vexed,
Maud; 'twas all along o' you; ye know, I wor a bit jealous, 'appen; but
anyhow I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yer
hands.'

'I wish you'd go away. Have you nothing to do, and no one to see? Why
_can't_ you leave me alone, sir?'

''Cos I can't, Maud, that's jest why; and I wonder, Maud, how can you be so
ill-natured, when you see me like this; how can ye?'

'I w