'But ye know yer mother's took that dislike t' me. She'd never abide the
sight o' me at Hootsey.'
He remained silent a moment, moodily reflecting.
'She'd jest ha't' git ower it. I see nought in that objection,' he
declared.
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, it canna be. Indeed it canna be at all. Ye'd best jest
put it right from yer mind, once and for all.'
'I'd jest best put it off my mind, had I? Ye talk like a child!' he
burst out scornfully. 'I intend ye t' coom t' love me, an' I will na tak
ye till ye do. I'll jest go on waitin' for ye, an', mark my words, my
day 'ull coom at last.'
He spoke loudly, in a slow, stubborn voice, and stepped suddenly towards
her. With a faint, frightened cry she shrank back into the doorway of
the hen-house.
'Ye talk like a prophet. Ye sort o' skeer me.'
He laughed grimly, and paused, reflectively scanning her face. He seemed
about to continue in the same strain; but, instead, turned abruptly on
his heel, and strode away through the garden gate.
IV
For three hundred years there had been a Garstin at Hootsey: generation
after generation had tramped the grey stretch of upland, in the
spring-time scattering their flocks over the fell-sides, and, at the
'back-end', on dark, winter afternoons, driving them home again, down
the broad bridle-path that led over the 'raise'.
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