The old woman snorted. “Much you know! Any girl would have you, Milt Dale, if you'd only throw a kerchief.”
“Me!... An' why, Auntie?” he queried, half amused, half thoughtful. When he got back to civilization he always had to adjust his thoughts to the ideas of people.
“Why? I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you're like a boy of ten—an' then sometimes as old as the hills.... There's no young man to compare with you, hereabouts. An' this girl—she'll have all the spunk of the Auchinclosses.”
“Then maybe she'd not be such a catch, after all,” replied Dale.
“Wal, you've no cause to love them, that's sure. But, Milt, the Auchincloss women are always good wives.”
“Dear Auntie, you're dreamin',” said Dale, soberly. “I want no wife. I'm happy in the woods.”
“Air you goin' to live like an Injun all your days, Milt Dale?” she queried, sharply.
“I hope so.”
“You ought to be ashamed. But some lass will change you, boy, an' mebbe it'll be this Helen Rayner. I hope an' pray so to thet.”
“Auntie, supposin' she did change me. She'd never change old Al. He hates me, you know.”