"I don't know what's the matter, and I don't care what's the matter; but I feel just awful, I do! I feel just like the dickens!"
"But, Carrie, you ought to be very, very happy, with all this beautiful scenery, and the sweet air in your hair and on your rosy face. And then what a lady you have grown to be! Now don't look cross at me like that! You ought to be as happy as a bird."
"But I ain't happy; I ain't happy a bit, I ain't!" Then, after a pause she continues:
"I don't like that Gar Dosson. He was here looking for you."
"Here? Looking for me?"
"Yes, and he called old Forty-nine Old Blossom-nose. I just hate him."
"Oh, well, Carrie, you know Forty-nine does drink dreadfully, and you know he has got a dreadful red face."
"Mr. John Logan," cries Carrie, hotly, "Forty-nine don't drink dreadfully. He don't drink dreadfully at all. He does take something for his ager, but he don't drink."
"Well, his face is dreadful red, anyway," answers John Logan.
Carrie, swinging her foot and thoughtfully looking up at the trees, says, after a pause: