'Never mind, Mally, but attend to me. Will you not be so cold and stiff, and respectful to me? I hate a girl who "sir's" me as if I were a lord, and makes me curtseys, and never looks at me, and seems as if she hated me--'

'Oh, no, indeed no, sir--'

'And lives all day long in the same house, and scarcely speaks to me.

You will drive me off to sea again, _ma'am_, if you don't take care.

Look into my face, and say why you hate me so!'

'I hate no one in the world, sir; much less any one of your name.'

Here the girl looked up from the poor cow who was licking her hand, and round whose neck her arm was flung, into the face of the young man. Owen put his hand on the arm that rested on the cow, and said earnestly,--

'Then treat me as your brother.'

'I have lost my brothers and sisters, and father and mother, and kith and kin. I have seen them all die--all that ever loved me. Oh! Mr Owen!

you are too kind--too kind; but do not talk to me so, or it will break my heart.'

Here was even more of Irish feeling than Owen either expected or desired. But he took Gladys's hand in his, and, looking kindly from his large honest dark eyes into hers, said,--

'Forgive me, Gladys, for making you think of your sorrows. But you know my dear sister Netta is as good as lost to me, and I want some one who will be like her, or at least, who will not be quite as cold as clay.'

'Gladys withdrew her eyes and her hand. There was even more than brotherly warmth in that kind glance and winning manner.

'Thank you, sir, I will try; indeed I will,' said Gladys, as she took up the bucket, and turned to leave the shed.

'Thank you, ma'am, you are very obliging, but you are not going to carry my bucket.'

'Oh,' sir! if you please do not speak so to a poor servant girl like me.

I would rather not hear it.'

'You will not see, or hear, or believe what I do, and say and think all day long; so now, here, where n.o.body else can listen, you must hear me.

You must learn to be happy with us, you must love us, you must--'

'Oh! I do, sir, I do. Let me go, sir, if you please.'

'Not until you hear that you must love me, even me whom you cannot bear.'

'Oh! I do, sir--I do. I thank you, I pray for you, I love you all, always; indeed, indeed, I do.'

'But better than all the others, as I love you, so as to be my wife when--when--'

'Let me go, Mr Owen, if you please. You must not talk to me so, sir; me, just now a beggar at your gate.'

'But I must, I will, and you must listen. In spite of myself, and of your cold manners and pale face, and all the trouble you take to avoid me, I love you, Gladys, and will marry you if you will have me. I will give up the sea, and become a steady fellow, and live at home, and make you and my parents happy, and--'

'Oh! Mr Owen, if your parents were to hear you talking like this to me, what would they say to you? what would they think of me? You should not make a joke of my poverty and friendless state, sir. Anything else, but not this! oh! not this! and from you.'

'I was never more in earnest in all my life, and ask for only one word of encouragement from you to go and tell my and mother directly,'

'Oh! if you please, Mr Owen, do not do this. If are in earnest, sir, and I hope you are not, you must forget that you ever said this to me.'

'I do not mean to forget it, Gladys, or to let you forget it. Will you say the word? only give me hope and all will be right. Will you marry me, and be the daughter of your adopted mother?'

'I can never marry any one, sir; I have nothing to live for in this world, but to try to do my duty to you and yours, and to think of those I have lost.'

'Gladys, your cold manner maddens me. Say you hate me, and would rather marry some one else; say anything that has some heart in it. We sailors are made of warmer stuff than such icebergs as you.'

'I cannot say that, sir, because I do not hate you; and I never mean to marry, and I would sooner die than cause trouble in your family.'

'Then you won't have me, Gladys? and you mean to send me back to sea again, and to make me return to my wild ways, and to make my mother miserable?'

'Och hone! what will I do? Why do you say such things to me, Mr Owen, who have never done you any harm? I cannot marry--I cannot do what would be wicked and ungrateful--I will go away again back to old Ireland, and not cause trouble to those who have been so good to me.'

'No, you will not do anything of the kind, unless you wish me to go after you. I shall tell my father that I will be off to sea again, and then I need not trouble you any more.'

'I will not stay, Mr Owen, to make mischief; so if you will only please to stop at home with your parents I will go away.'

'I shall not please to do anything of the kind, for I only stayed so long on your account, and this is the reward I get.'

Owen was in a pa.s.sion, and vainly striving to keep it down. His face was flushed, he looked angrily and moodily upon the drooping head of Gladys as it bent lower and lower over the poor cow upon which she was leaning.

He suddenly seized her hand, and exclaimed,--

'I am not used to be refused in this cool sort of way, and I don't believe there ever was a woman in the world who doesn't wish to get married to some one or other. Now whether you mean to have me or not is not the question I am going to ask; but whether you have any other lover, or ever had one that you prefer to me?--Tell me this, and I shall be satisfied.'

Gladys tried to draw away her hand from the impetuous young man, but he held it fast.

'You needn't be afraid; I would not hurt a hair of your head. And if you knew what I am feeling now at this moment you will tell me the truth.

Will you answer me a few questions?'

'Yes, Mr Owen, if I can without doing or saying what is wrong.'

Owen looked Gladys again in the face, as she slightly raised her head to answer his question. Why that burning blush? Why those bright, expressive eyes, if she did not care for him? For a moment he had hope, and pressed the hand he held. Again she bent over the cow that divided them, and tried to withdraw her hand.

At any other time Owen would have laughed at the notion of making an offer, divided from his beloved by a fine Alderney cow, but now he was too much in earnest for laughing.

'Gladys, do you love my brother Rowland?' he asked.

Gladys now looked at him in unfeigned astonishment as she answered,--

'No, Mr Owen; surely I have never given you reason to suppose so. A grand gentleman like him!'

'But there is a still grander of whom I am jealous,' continued Owen.

'Colonel Vaughan, I have often seen him here upon every excuse--and always to look at you. I have seen him, and know it well. Do you care for this great gentleman?'

'Oh! no sir,' said Gladys, sadly. 'How can you suspect me of such a thing? Are my manners so forward, or am I so foolish as to let any one suppose I could think of people so far above me? This is not kind, Mr Owen.'

'One more, Gladys. Those beneath you, then. You cannot, I feel you cannot, think of that gardener or footman at the Park, or of young Gwillim, the Half Moon, or--there are so many who admire you, Gladys.'

'Oh! no, sir, I do not think so; no one says so to me, and I care for none of them. Now, I had better go, if you please, Mr Owen--my mistress will be wanting me.'