“Very well; do. Come over soon. Farewell.”
Then he clicked to the horse and rode on, turning down the road that led through the shady woods to the old mill.
“Patty Penrose’s a mighty pretty girl; ain’t she, Thomas?” said Henry.
Tom made no answer, and they walked on in silence.
At dinner time, Patty was brought up as a subject of talk.
“Don’t thee think she’s very pretty, Thomas?” said Susan.
“Well—I don’t know,” said Tom, hesitatingly; “n—not so very.” I do not know why he should have answered as he did, but, somehow, he did not feel like saying that he thought Patty was pretty.
“Well, I can’t help thinking as thee does about it, Thomas,” said Mary; “I love Patty Penrose very dearly, but, I must say, I never could see her beauty.”
“She’s the prettiest girl in the neighborhood,” said William.
“I know some people think she’s pretty,” said Mary, “but, I must say, I don’t see where her beauty lies. Her nose isn’t good, and she has hardly a bit of color in her face. She’s a dear good girl, but I don’t think she’s what one would call handsome.”