"You're a durned wise 'n'!" he said, presently. "S'firy's sot ag'in yo' somehow, but I's jok'n' w'en I said I'd 'low she'd 'vite yo' back to Baldy. She wouldn't do sich a vi'lent thin' as that, see'n' as how she's got no airthly complaint ag'in yo', 'cep'n' you're a young man 'n' good-look'n', 'n'"—lowering his voice and nodding toward the Dryad, who sat apparently absorbed in her copybook—"she don't 'low to ever let no man make love to that gal, 'n' she's skeerd o' yo' on that 'count—see?"
"Gran'fer, I smell some'n' burnin'!" called Celeste.
The old man turned with a trembling, low-voiced "Good God!" and bolted into the house, and instantly I heard a tin cover clatter on the kitchen floor.
"Whut'd you tell Gran'fer w'en you took 'im over there?" asked Eve, when I was again beside her.
"The truth," I replied, not altogether relishing a like confession to her.
"Tell me, too!" she demanded, at once.
"Suppose I won't?" I parried, grasping the opportunity offered to weigh her character in different scales.
She thought a moment, with a queer little squinting of the eyes.
"Well, if you won't—I don't keer!"
It was not pique, but perfect candor.