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Early in the winter Aloys took his first courageous step in right of his adolescence. Mary Ann had received a fine new distaff set with pewter. The first time she brought it into the spinning-room and sat down to her work, Aloys came forward, took hold of it, and repeated the old rhyme:–

“Good lassie, give me leave,
Let me shake your luck out of this sleeve;
Great goodhap and little goodhap
Into my lassie’s lap.
Lassie, why are you so rude?
Your distaff is only of wood;
If it had silver or gold on’t,
I’d have made a better rhyme on’t.”

His voice trembled a little, but he got through without stammering. Mary Ann first cast her eyes down with shame and fear lest he should “balk;” but now she looked at him with beaming eyes. According to custom, she dropped the spindle and the whirl,[3] which Aloys picked up, and exacted for the spindle the promise of a dumpling, and for the whirl that of a doughnut. But the best came last. Aloys released the distaff and received as ransom a hearty kiss. He smacked so loud that it sounded all over the room, and the other boys envied him sorely. He sat down quietly in a corner, rubbed his hands, and was contented with himself and with the world. And so he might have remained to the end of time, if that marplot of a George had not interfered again.

[Footnote 3: A ring of hard wood or stone fixed to the end of the spindle, to weigh it down and improve its turning.]

Mary Ann was the first voice in the church-choir. One evening George asked her to sing the song of the “Dark-Brown Maid.” She began without much hesitation, and George fell in with the second voice so finely and sonorously that all the others who had joined in also lapsed into silence one by one, and contented themselves with listening to the two who sang so well. Mary Ann, finding herself unsupported by her companions, found her voice trembling a little, and nudged her companions to go on singing; but, as they would not, she took courage, and sang with much spirit, while George seemed to uphold her as with strong arms. They sang:–

“Oh, to-morrow I must leave you,
My beloved dark-brown maid:
Out at the upper gate we travel,
My beloved dark-brown maid.

“When I march in foreign countries,
Think of me, my dearest one;
With the sparkling glass before you,
Often think how I adore you;
Drink a health to him that’s gone.

“Now I load my brace of pistols,
And I fire and blaze away,
For my dark-brown lassie’s pleasure;
For she chose me for her treasure,
And she sent the rest away.

“In the blue sky two stars are shining:
Brighter than the moon they glow;
This looks on the dark-brown maiden,
And that looks where I must go.

“I’ve bought a ribbon for my sabre,
And a nosegay for my hat,
And a kerchief in my keeping,
To restrain my eyes from weeping:
From my love I must depart.

“Now I spur my horse’s mettle,
Now I rein him in and wait:
So good-bye, dear dark-brown maiden;
I must ride out at the gate.”

When each of the girls had filled four or five spindles, the table was pushed into a corner, to clear a space of three or four paces in length and breadth, on which they took turns in dancing, those who sat singing the music. When George brought out Mary Ann, he sang his own song, dancing to it like a spindle: indeed, he did not need much more space than a spindle, for he used to say that no one was a good waltzer who could not turn around quickly and safely on a plate. When he stopped at last,–with a whirl which made the skirts of Mary Ann’s wadded dress rise high above her feet,–she suddenly left him alone, as if afraid of him, and ran into a corner, where Aloys sat moodily watching the sport. Taking his hand, she said,–