III
Squire Robinson
“About this time there came to town an old gentleman from the country, who had known Mary’s father, and he brought with him his daughter Jemima. Jemima Robinson and Mary Tomkins were fast friends, though narrow circumstances compelled the latter to administer to the wants of her aunt’s inmates. Now, it was thought that the presence of the old squire and his daughter might induce the heart-laden girl to take counsel with prudence, and to give herself either to the one suitor or to the other.
“My dear,” said the squire, “you must think of the future.”
“And of the past,” said Mary.
“Let the past take care of itself, my dear. A house over your head and half a dozen children are great blessings. Johnny Thomas is a sprightly fellow. Thou hast half a mind to take him, I know, Mary.”
“But not more than half, Mr. Robinson.”
“Dang it, girl! then have the parson. He had ever a sheep’s eye for thee, and, if I remember rightly, thou wast sweet upon him once.”
“ ’Twas but half sweet,” she whispered, with her eyes turned to the ground.
“But thou knowest how the donkey fared who was starved to death between two bundles of hay. Thou wouldst not imitate the ass!”
“The poor brute at any rate was honest,” said Mary.
“Thou robbest me almost of my patience,” said the squire, angrily. “Thou canst not have both. Take one and leave the other.”
But she answered him only as she had ever answered, “Never, never, never, never!”