"Thet thing."—"What thing, Gabe?"
"This yer marryin' o' Mrs. Markle," said Gabriel, with an assumption of easy, business-like indifference.
"Why?" asked Olly.
"She wouldn't hev me."
"What?" said Olly, facing swiftly round.
Gabriel evaded his sister's eyes, and looking in the fire, repeated slowly, but with great firmness—
"No; not fur—fur—fur a gift!"
"She's a mean, stuck-up, horrid old thing!" said Olly, fiercely. "I'd jest like to—why, there ain't a man az kin compare with you, Gabe! Like her impudence!"
Gabriel waved his pipe in the air deprecatingly, yet with such an evident air of cheerful resignation, that Olly faced upon him again suspiciously, and asked—"What did she say?"
"She said," replied Gabe, slowly, "thet her heart was given to another. I think she struck into poetry, and said—