"Well, I reckon we might set matters square, you an' me, 'Lizabeth, by
marryin' an' settlin' down comfortable. I've no children to pester you,
an' you're young yet to be givin' up thoughts o' marriage. What do 'ee
say, cousin?"
'Lizabeth picked a full pod from the bush beside her, and began shelling
the peas, one by one, into her hand. Her face was cool and
contemplative.
"'Tis eight years ago, William, since last you asked me. Ain't that
so?" she asked absently.
"Come, Cousin, let bygones be, and tell me; shall it be, my dear?"
"No, William," she answered; "'tis too late an hour to ask me now. I
thank you, but it can't be." She passed the peas slowly to and fro in
her fingers.
"But why, 'Lizabeth?" he urged; "you was fond o' me once. Come, girl,
don't stand in your own light through a hit o' pique."
"It's not that," she explained; "it's that I've found myself out--an'
you. You've humbled my pride too sorely."
"You're thinking o' Maria."
"Partly, maybe; but it don't become us to talk o' one that's dead.
You've got my answer, William, and don't ask me again. I loved you
once, but now I'm only weary when I think o't. You wouldn't understand
me if I tried to tell you.
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