He gently removed her hands from before her tear-stained face.
"I was nob'but laffin', Maggie," he pleaded; "say yo' forgie me."
"I don't," she cried, struggling. "I think yo're the hatefullest lad as iver lived.
The moment was critical; it was a time for heroic measures.
"No, yo' don't, lass," he remonstrated; and, releasing her wrists, lifted the little drooping face, wet as it was, like the earth after a spring shower, and, holding it between his two big hands, kissed it twice.
"Yo' coward!" she cried, a flood of warm red crimsoning her cheeks; and she struggled vainly to be free.
"Yo' used to let me," he reminded her in aggrieved tones.
"I niver did!" she cried, more indignant than truthful.
