"Surr, there can be only one harram to a girrul from a gintleman," he laid his hand on my arm, and said this impressively—whatever else he may have ever said in jest, he was in grim earnest now—"an' that's whin he's a villain. Ye wouldn't do the black thrick, and desave a girrul that thrusted ye?"
"No, Andy, no! God forbid! I would rather go to the highest rock on some island there beyond, where the surf is loudest, and throw myself into the sea, than do such a thing. No! Andy, there are lots of men that hold such matters lightly, but I don't think I'm one of them. Whatever sins I have, or may ever have upon my soul, I hope such a one as that will never be there."
All the comment Andy made was, "I thought so!" Then the habitual quizzical look stole over his face again, and he said:—
"There does be some that does fear Braches iv Promise. Mind ye, a man has to be mighty careful on the subject, for some weemin is that 'cute, there's no bein' up to them."
Andy's sudden change to this new theme was a little embarrassing, since the idea leading to it—or rather preceding it—had been one purely personal to myself; but he was off, and I thought it better that he should go on.
"Indeed!" said I.
"Yes, surr. Oh, my! but they're 'cute. The first thing that a girrul does when a man looks twice at
