much, neither, for
wheer the auld stones be, theer you 'm to be expected."

"How are you, Chris? But I needn't ask. Yes, I'm fond of the stones."

"Well you may be. They talk to 'e like friends, seemingly. An' even I
knaw a sight more 'bout 'em now. You've made me feel so differ'nt to
'em, you caan't think."

"For that matter," he answered, leaping at the chance, "you've made me
feel different to them."

"Why, how could I, Martin?"

"I'll tell you. Would you mind sitting down here, just for a moment? I
won't keep you. I've no right to ask for a minute of your time; but
there's dry moss upon it--I mean the stone; and I was waiting on
purpose, if you'll forgive me for waylaying you like this. There's a
little thing--a big thing, I mean--the biggest--too big for words
almost, yet it wants words--and yet sometimes it doesn't--at
least--I--would you sit here?"

He was breathing rather hard, and his words were tripping. Managing his
voice ill, the tones of it ran away from bass to shrill treble. She saw
it all at a glance, and realised that Martin had been blundering on, in
pure ignorance and pure love, all these weary weeks. She sat down
silently and her mind moved like light along the wide gamut of fifty
emotions in a second. Anger and sorrow strove together,--anger with Clem
and his callous, cynic silence, sorrow for the panting wretch before
her. Chris opened her mouth to speak, then realised where her flying
thoughts had taken her and that, as yet, Martin Grimbal had said
nothing. Her unmaidenly attitude and the sudden reflection that she was
about to refuse one before he had asked her, awoke a hysteric
inclination to laugh, then a longing to cry. But all the anxious-visaged
man before her noted was a blush that waved like auroral light from the
girl's neck to her cheek, from her cheek to her forehead. That he saw,
and thought it was love, and thanked the Lord in his clumsy fashion
aloud.

"God be praised! I do think you guess--I do think you guess! But oh, my
dear, my dear, you don't know what 's in my heart for you. My little
pearl of a Chris, can you care for such a bear of a man? Can you let me
labour all my life long to make your days good to you? I love you so--I
do. I never thought when the moment came I should find tongue to speak
it, but I have; and now I could say it fifty thousand times. I'd just be
proud to tie your shoe-string, Chris, my dear, and be your old slave
and--Chris! my Chris! I've hurt yo