"Even if she is marryin' an old man an' a cast-off beau of her ma's, look at the ring he give her! A di'mon' big as my thumb-nail. She let me put it on my finger once, and it looked grand. Oh, my, I'd do 'most anything for a ring like that!"
"Would you, really, Mag?" he asked curiously, wondering at the fascination shining bits of stone possess for women far more civilized than this little savage. "Do you think a diamond ring would make you any happier?"
"In co'se it would," she said, impatiently.
"Why?"
"Oh, I dunno—it would make me look prettier, I expect."
He said, kindly: "You do not need to look any prettier. You are quite pretty enough, as it is."
Her whole expression changed. She gave him a conscious upward glance. "Am I? Why, Mr. Philip, I never thought a preacher'd notice how a gal looked!"
It told him all and more than he wanted to know. He continued to meet her gaze with grave eyes, and after a moment her own dropped.
"'T ain't much use bein' pretty round here," she muttered. "The city's the place for pretty gals."
"Who told you that? The drummer I saw you talking with behind the village store a few days ago?"