And I said "good-evening," for the grave was for the morrow; and he let me go nearly to the stile before he stuck his spade into the ground and followed.
"Excoose of my making use," he said, "of a kind of a personal reference, miss; but you be that pat with your answers, it maketh me believe you must be sharp inside--more than your father, the poor Captain, were, as all them little grass buttons argueth.

Now, miss, if I thought you had head-piece enough to keep good counsel and ensue it, maybe I could tell you a thing as would make your hair creep out of them coorous hitch-ups, and your heart a'most bust them there braids of fallallies." "Why, what in the world do you mean ?" I asked, being startled by the old man's voice and face.
"Nothing, miss, nothing.

I was only a-joking.

If you bain't come to no more discretion than that--to turn as white as the clerk's smock-frock of a Easter-Sunday--why, the more of a joke one has, the better, to bring your purty color back to you.

Ah! Polly of the mill was the maid for color--as good for the eyesight as a chaney-rose in April.