"Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?" she
asked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.

"No, I han't," the pert fellow rejoined.

"Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so
like ony cat a mouse."

"Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench," he answered
calmly.

"Yo' wench, indeed!" she cried, tossing her head.

"Ay, or will be," he muttered.

"What's that?" she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her
face.

"Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be
sure, and no sooner."

The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.

"I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam," she said.

"Don't yo', Mrs. M'A--

The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David
laughed quietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits.