"'Tis the woman we oughtn't to think on
that draws us with a hair."
"Now that's a case in p'int," replied Solomon, nodding after the
vanishing figure of Abel. "All his wits are in his eyes, as you can tell
jest to look at him--an' for sech a little hop-o'-my-thumb female that
don't reach nigh up to his shoulder."
"I can't see any particular good looks in the gal, myself," remarked
Mrs. Bottom, "but then, when it's b'iled down to the p'int, it ain't
her, but his own wishes he's chasin'."
"Did you mark the way she veered from him to Mr. Jonathan the other
day?" inquired William Ming, "she's the sort that would flirt with a
scarecrow if thar warn't anything else goin'."
"The truth is that her eyes are bigger than her morals, an' I said it
the first time I ever seed her," rejoined old Adam. "My taste, even when
I was young, never ran to women that was mo' eyes than figger."
Still discoursing, they stumbled out into the dusk, through which Abel's
large figure loomed ahead of them.
"A man that's born to trouble, an' that of the fightin' kind--as the
sparks fly upward," added the elder.
As the miller drove out of the wood, the rustle of the leaves under his
wheels changed from the soft murmurs in the moist hollows to the crisp
crackle in the open places.
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