He shook hands and hoped that her mother was well.
"A harvest to make up for last year," he said. "You ought to be lending a hand by rights."
"I don't think Mr. Baskerville would like for Polly and me to do that. 'Tis too hot," she said.
"Nathan wouldn't? Surely he would. Many hands make light work and save the time. You're a strong girl, aren't you?"
"Strong as a pony, sir."
"Don't call me 'sir.' And you're fond of wild nature and the country—so Mark tells me."
"That I am, and the wild flowers."
"Why didn't you wear a bunch of 'em then? Better them than that davered[[2]] rose stuck in your belt. Gold by the look of it—the belt I mean."
[[2]] Davered—withered.
She laughed.