"I'm not dressed. I just slip on any old thing to go milking."
"It's not the dress, that doesn't matter—though I can imagine you in trailing purple velvet with a trimming of sable."
An illumination shone in her face, as if her soul had suddenly blossomed.
"Purple velvet, and what else did you say, sir?" she questioned.
"Sable—fur, you know, the richest, softest, queenliest fur there is."
"I'd like to see it," she rejoined.
"Well, it couldn't improve you!—remember always that the fewer fine clothes you have on the better. Tell me, Blossom," he added, touching her shoulder, "have you many lovers?"
She shook her head. "There are so few about here that any woman would look at."
"I've been told that there's an engaging young rector."
"Mr. Mullen—well, so he is—and he preaches the most beautiful sermons. But he fancies Molly Merryweather, they say, like all the others, though he won't be likely to marry anybody from around here, I suppose."