“She seems to do everything well,” said Roden, with a pleased recollection of those mutton-chops which Aunt Tishy had confided to him “Miss Faginia done herself.”
“She cert’n’y does,” said Herrick, and after making some unique excuse disappeared also.
Miss Herrick appeared a few moments later, again clad in her boyish attire, and mounted upon a fidgety little roan mare. She had slung a wicker basket from the saddle, and Roden heard a merry clink as of glass kissing silver when the mare sidled about.
“That’s a clever-looking little nag,” said Roden. “Is she yours?”
“Nuck,” said Virginia. “I reckon she’s yours; she goes with the place.”
“I didn’t see her this morning,” Roden said, somewhat puzzled.
“No; she’d gone to the shop to get a new shoe; that’s why. I reckon you’ll name her over.”
“Why?” said Roden. It seemed to him he had never put that monosyllabic question so often before in the entire course of his life.
“’Cause it ain’t very pretty,” Virginia explained. “Father named her—it’s Pokeberry.”