‘Why will you never talk to me, cousin Dorothy?’ he said.

’Is it so, Mr. Scudamore?  I was not aware.  If thou spoke and I answered not, I am sorry.’

‘No, I mean not that,’ returned Scudamore.  ’But when I venture to speak, you always make me feel as if I ought not to have spoken.  When I call you cousin Dorothy, you reply with Mr. Scudamore.’

’The relation is hardly near enough to justify a less measure of observance.’

‘Our mothers loved each other.’

‘They found each other worthy.’

‘And you do not find me such?’ sighed Scudamore, with a smile meant to be both humble and bewitching.

’N-n-o.  Thou hast not made me desire to hold with thee much converse.’

‘Tell me why, cousin, that I may reform that which offends thee.’

’If a man see not his faults with his own eyes, how shall he see them with the eyes of another?’

‘Wilt thou never love me, Dorothy?—­not even a little?’

‘Wherefore should I love thee, Rowland?’

‘We are commanded to love even our enemies.’

‘Art thou then mine enemy, cousin?’

‘No, forsooth!  I am the most loving friend thou hast.’

‘Then am I sorely to be pitied.’

‘For having my love?’

’Nay; for having none better than thine.  But thank God, it is not so.’

‘Must I then be thine enemy indeed before thou wilt love me?’

’No, cousin:  cease to be thine own enemy and I will call thee my friend.’

’Marry! wherein then am I mine own enemy?  I lead a sober life enough—­as thou seest, ever under the eye of my lord.’

‘But what wouldst thou an’ thou wert from under the eye of thy lord?  I know thee better than thou thinkest, cousin.  I have read thy title-page, if not thy whole book.’

‘Tell me then how runneth my title-page, cousin.’

’The art of being wilfully blind, or The way to see no farther than one would.’

‘Fair preacher,—­’ began Rowland, but Dorothy interrupted him.

‘Nay then, an’ thou betake thee to thy jibes, I have done,’ she said.

’Be not angry with me; it is but my nature, which for thy sake I will control.  If thou canst not love me, wilt thou not then pity me a little?’

’That I may pity thee, answer me what good thing is there in thee wherefore I should love thee.’

‘Wouldst thou have a man trumpet his own praises?’

’I fear not that of thee who hast but the trumpet—­I will tell thee this much:  I have never seen in thee that thou didst love save for the pastime thereof.  I doubt if thou lovest thy master for more than thy place.’

‘Oh cousin!’

’Be honest with thyself, Rowland.  If thou would have me for thy cousin, it must be on the ground of truth.’