'
With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was on his sleeve.
I was gazing imploringly in his face.
But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little
on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the
trees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil
fit of laughter.
'I'll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don't know they lads; they
bain't that easy come over; and I won't get knocked on the head, nor sent
to gaol 'appen, for no good to thee nor me. There's Meg there, she knows
well enough I could na' manage that; so I won't try it, Miss, by no chance;
no offence, Miss; but I'd rayther not, an' I'll just try what I can make
o'this; that's all I can do for ye.'
Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the direction
of the Windmill Wood.
'Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye'll not tell o' me?'
'Whar 'ill ye go now, Tom?' inquired Meg, uneasily.
'Never ye mind, lass,' answered he, breaking his way through the thicket,
and soon disappearing.
'E'es that 'ill be it--he'll git into the sheepwalk behind the mound.
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