‘There’s nought against me,’ he persisted.  ’I’m as good a man as any one on ’em.  Ay, as good a man as any one on ’em,’ he repeated defiantly, raising his voice.

’It’s impossible, Mr. Garstin, it’s impossible.  Ye’ve been very kind to me—­’ she added, in a choking voice.

‘Wa dang it, I didna mean t’ mak ye cry, lass,’ he exclaimed, with a softening of his tone.  ‘There’s nought for ye t’ cry ower.’

She sank on to the stones, passionately sobbing in hysterical and defenceless despair.  Anthony stood a moment, gazing at her in clumsy perplexity:  then, coming close to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and said gently: 

‘Coom, lass, what’s trouble?  Ye can trust me.’

She shook her head faintly.

‘Ay, but ye can though,’ he asserted, firmly.  ‘Come, what is’t?’

Heedless of him, she continued to rock herself to and fro, crooning in her distress: 

‘Oh!  I wish I were dead!...  I wish I could die!’

—­’Wish ye could die?’ he repeated.  ’Why, whatever can’t be that’s troublin’ ye like this?  There, there, lassie, give ower:  it ’ull all coom right, whatever it be—­’

‘No, no,’ she wailed.  ‘I wish I could die!...  I wish I could die!’

Lights were twinkling in the village below; and across the valley darkness was draping the hills.  The girl lifted her face from her hands, and looked up at him with a scared, bewildered expression.

‘I must go home:  I must be getting home,’ she muttered.

‘Nay, but there’s sommut mighty amiss wi’ ye.’

’No, it’s nothing...  I don’t know—­I’m not well...  I mean it’s nothing... it’ll pass over... you mustn’t think anything of it.’

‘Nay, but I canna stand by an see ye in sich trouble.’

‘It’s nothing, Mr. Garstin, indeed it’s nothing,’ she repeated.

‘Ay, but I canna credit that,’ he objected stubbornly.

She sent him a shifting, hunted glance.

‘Let me get home... you must let me get home.’

She made a tremulous, pitiful attempt at firmness.  Eyeing her keenly, he barred her path:  she flushed scarlet, and looked hastily away across the valley.

‘If ye’ll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing... it’s nothing.’

‘If ye’ll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye,’ he repeated, with a solemn, deliberate sternness.  She shivered, and looked away again, vaguely, across the valley.

‘You can do nothing:  there’s nought to be done,’ she murmured drearily.

‘There’s a man in this business,’ he declared.

‘Let me go!  Let me go!’ she pleaded desperately.

‘Who is’t that’s bin puttin’ ye into this distress?’ His voice sounded loud and harsh.

‘No one, no one.  I canna tell ye, Mr. Garstin....  It’s no one,’ she protested weakly.  The white, twisted look on his face frightened her.