“I am sure that every baby which sees you will fall in love with you, and your daughter must be aware of that.”
At this rather pointed compliment the farmer’s face glowed like a cider apple, and his smile seemed almost to reach to his ears.
“I swan; but you’re a peart chap. What wages do you git?”
“Forty-five dollars a month.”
“Well, you airn it, you jist bet; but I was goin’ to say that I orter speak of the roan mare, don’t you think?”
“Have you more than one horse that is of a roan color?”
“No, sir.”
“Then when you speak of the roan, they must know that you can only mean the roan mare.”
The old gentleman fairly beamed with pleasure, and reaching solemnly down in his pockets, he fished out another silver quarter, which he handed to Ben, saying: