Spunk, real, Simon-pure spunk, started somewhere in Patty and coursed through her blood like wine.
“If a girl's old enough to stay at home and work, I should think she was old enough to go out and play once in a while.” Patty was still too timid to make this remark more than a courteous suggestion, so far as its tone was concerned.
“Don't answer me back; you're full of new tricks, and you've got to stop 'em, right where you are, or there'll be trouble. You were whistlin' just now up in the barn chamber; that's one of the things I won't have round my premises,—a whistlin' girl.”
“'T was a Sabbath-School hymn that I was whistling!” This with a creditable imitation of defiance.
“That don't make it any better. Sing your hymns if you must make a noise while you're workin'.”
“It's the same mouth that makes the whistle and sings the song, so I don't see why one's any wickeder than the other.”
“You don't have to see,” replied the Deacon grimly; “all you have to do is to mind when you're spoken to. Now run 'long 'bout your work.”
“Can't I go up to Ellen's, then?”
“What's goin' on up there?”
“Just a frolic. There's always a good time at Ellen's, and I would so like the sight of a big, rich house now and then!”