“Gineral Washington looks like a picter,” she said, regarding the old horse admiringly. “Wal, I always did say, Sim White, that you could curry a horse better than any other man in Wyoming; why, the old feller shines like a looking-glass; I can’t bear a man that is careless with a horse; I wouldn’t marry him if he had ten bags of golden guineas, for if he can’t treat a dumb creetur well, what would he do to a wife?”
“Are you going to Mother Derwent’s right off?” Sim asked, somewhat heedless of Aunt Polly’s remark.
“Yes, I am; I want to see that they’ve got everything all right. Now, make the Gineral side up, and help me on.”
The old maid rested one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other upon Sim’s shoulder, who put his stalwart arm about her waist, and before she could make any resistance, if she had felt so inclined, lifted her to her seat.
“Wal, if I ever!” she exclaimed, indignantly, though the corners of her mouth worked with suppressed pleasure. “I never did see such a man—ain’t you ashamed?—get away now—suppose anybody had come by and seen you!”
“You see I couldn’t help it, Aunt Polly.”
“Aunt Polly!” shrieked the old maid, in anger and defiance. “Miss Carter, ef you please—that’s my name! You’re a mannerly feller, ain’t you? Pretty age you are, to be calling me such a name! Get away with you, and if that garden ain’t all weeded afore I get back you needn’t expect many good words from me.”
“Now don’t get into a passion,” said Sim, either really anxious to mollify her, or impelled by a desire to escape his task; “I didn’t mean no harm; the boys and gals call you so.”
“Wal, you ain’t a boy, nor a gal neither; there’s grey in your hair, plain enough to be seen!”
“Now, don’t be mad,” said Sim, catching hold of her bridle, as she manifested some intention of riding away; “I’ll never let my tongue slip again; come, Miss Carter!”