"So you're fond of dancing, Phoebe?" asked the Parson.
"Sure 'nough! Dancen' and singen'—that's life, that is. Ef you can't dance and sing I don't see no good in liven'! I don't hold wi' chaps who think of nawthen but wanten' to be saved. Time 'nough for that when gettin' on for thirty!"
Ishmael winced at the hit, and the Parson laughed as he tied two of
Phoebe's ringlets into a bow under her chin.
"There are ways and ways of remembering the Creator in the days of your youth, Phoebe," he said, "and one of them's by dancing and singing—if it's with the right kind of chap. I don't think much of Jacka's John-Willy; if you really want to be a great lady to-night you must get Ishmael to dance with you. He's going to be master of the feast, and perhaps if you ask him very nicely he'll dance with you just once."
This view of Ishmael as a person of importance was a new one to
Phoebe, and she looked at him as though appraising him afresh.
"I don't ask no chaps to dance wi' I," she announced loftily. "Faëther's just comen' to see you, Da Boase."
She wriggled her sleek little otter-like head under his arm and slipped past him as she spoke. Then:
"Like to see the pigs?" she asked Ishmael carelessly. "Da ringed 'en the marnen'."
"Don't mind if I do," answered Ishmael, still scraping the gravel.
"Naden't come ef 'ee don't want to more'n thet!" retorted Phoebe, "and I could have shown 'ee where the old pig was killed. There's been a dark place on the stones ever since. I saw it killed, I did, Ishmael Ruan. I saw Da stick in the knife and the blood come all out, I ded!"