Just then Fult came up behind and laid a detaining hand on Aunt Ailsie's arm. "Stop a minute, granny—here's somebody craves to meet you."
Aunt Ailsie fell back behind the others. "Oh, the singing gal!" she exclaimed, looking for a long minute into Isabel's face, then turning her around for a rear view, and summing up the inventory with "Now, hain't she pretty as a poppet!"
Fult's eyes expressed concurrence.
"What's your name, daughtie?"
"Isabel Gwynne."
"How old air you?"
"Twenty."
"You don't look hit. You hain't got ary man yet, I allow?"
"No."
"Well, praise the Lord there's one amongst the quare women hain't a old maid! You got a whole year to go on yet, and, judging by your looks, you'll likely land a man before hit's over. I heared you sing this morning, and hit was fine. I follered singing myself when I were young."