North, South and over the Sea | Page 4

could not but be touched and flattered. In this actual mood, moreover, when his spirit was still smarting from the remembrance of the manner in which scornful Jinny had turned him into a laughing-stock, Sally's respectful appreciation was doubly sweet to him.
"I'll bring ye th' cockles if ye'll coom up th' lane at dinner-time," she went on. "I'll stand near the white gate. Coom, I'll show ye."
She sprang up and began quickly to ascend the hill. Her figure had the erectness common to those accustomed to carry burdens on their heads, and also a grace and freedom of movement which impressed John with vague astonishment. As she turned upon the summit to point out the place of meeting, her face sparkling with animation, her eyes alight and eager, the golden coronet of hair radiant in the mellow glow, he gave a little gasp of amazement. The girl was beautiful! What a pity she should lead such a life!
"Yonder, see," she continued. "Aye--why do ye stare at me that way?"
"Sally," said practical, plain--spoken John, "I'm lookin' at you because I think you're real handsome, an' I think it's a terrible pity for ye to be traipsin' about like this. Why don't you leave your uncle and aunt and go to live with decent people--and put on shoes and stockings?" he added severely.
The girl gazed at him in amazement.
"Whatever put that i' your 'ead? Decent folks wouldn't have nought to say to me. I'd as soon go cocklin' as do onythin' else--an' I couldn't do wi' shoes an' stockin's."
"Didn't you ever go to school?"
"Nay, scarce at all. We was wonderful clever 'bout that. We shifted an' shifted an' gi'ed 'em all th' slip."
"Don't you go to church on Sundays?"
"Eh dear! I wonder what they'd say if me an' Aunt Nancy an' Uncle Jim was to go paddlin' in among all the fine folks--wi' bare feet an' all."
She laughed grimly.
"Will yo' coom yonder for the cockles?" she inquired presently.
John nodded, and, turning, she ran down the hill, fleet as a hare, and disappeared round its curved base.
John walked homewards thoughtfully, his own troubles quite forgotten in the consideration of Sally's lot. All that evening, and even during his work on the following morning, he pondered over it, and it was with a portentous face that he betook himself at noon to the trysting-place. So punctual was he that he stood there for some minutes before a musical cry of "Cockles! fine cockles!" came ringing down the lane, and presently Sally appeared, the basket poised upon her head throwing a deep shadow over her face, but the curves of her figure strongly defined by the brilliant summer sunlight. Halting by the gate she balanced her basket on the upper bar, and immediately measured out a quart by way of greeting.
"How much?" inquired business-like John.
"Ye may have 'em for nought; I've got plenty, see. They're fine ones, ar'n't they?"
"I'd sooner pay you for them. You want the money perhaps."
"Well, then," said Sally, and thrust out her brown palm.
"Sally," said John, seriously, "I've been thinking a deal about you. I think it is somethin' dreadful the way you are livin'--you so comely an' all. It's an awful thing to think you don't know anythin' and never go to church or that. Do you never say your prayers?"
Sally looked at him, and twisted open a cockle before replying.
"Nay, I dunnot. Aunt Nancy doesn't neither."
"Do you know who made you, Sally?"
"I larned at school, the on'y time I went, but I forget now."
"Well, Sally, I've been thinkin'--somebody ought to teach you. I could teach you myself of an evening if you'd come yonder to the big sandhill."
Sally looked reflective, but presently nodded.
"I will while I'm here," she said; "but we's be shiftin' afore aught's along--we're allus shiftin'. We have to be terrible careful not to get cotched for sleeping out. They're that sharp wi' us they won't let a body do naught, so we dursen't stay too long i' one place. But I'll coom, an' ye can teach me if ye've a mind. If ye dunnot see me when ye coom to th' top o' hill, jest call out 'Cockle Sally! Cockle Sally!' an' I'll coom."
"No; that's an ugly name," said John, who had been idly watching the play of the sunbeams on the little curling strands of hair which were lightly lifted by the summer breeze. "I could find you a better name than that, I think. You look like--"
He paused.
"What do I look like?" inquired Sally.
John's glance once more travelled over her whole figure. The faded buff jacket, the not altogether immaculate apron of unbleached calico, were transfigured by the all-pervading sunshine; golden lights outlined the tanned face and hands; as for the hair, it was at that moment a very glory.
"I reckon I'd call you