"Really? But you seem to have a very good pair of your own. Don't trouble you, do they?"
"They're black," said Zephania, cheerfully. "Black eyes aren't pretty."
"Oh, I wouldn't go as far as that," murmured Wade, politely.
"No, sir, but Miss Walton's are just as blue as—as the sky up there between those two little white clouds. She's awfully pretty, Mr. Herring."
"Complexion dark, I suppose."
"No, sir, not dark at all. It's real light. Some folks say she's too pale, but I don't think so. And sometimes she has just lots of pink in her cheeks, like—like a doll I have at home. Folks that think she's too pale ought to have seen her yesterday afternoon."
"Why is that?'"
"'Cause she was just pink all over," answered Zephania. "I took some eggs up to her house and just when I was coming out she came up on the porch. She looked like; she'd been running and her face was just as pink as—as that lamp-mat!"
The object in question was an excruciating magenta, but Wade let it pass.
"Yesterday was rather a warm day for running, too," observed Wade.