"Not THAT kind o' talk!" repeated her father with aggrieved curiosity,
"Wot kind, then?"

"Well," said Minty, lifting her black eyes to her father's; "I ain't
no account, and you ain't no account either. You ain't got no college
education, ain't got no friends in 'Frisco, and ain't got no high-toned
style; I can't play the pianner, jabber French, nor get French dresses.
We ain't got no fancy 'Shallet,' as they call it, with a first-class
view of nothing; but only a shanty on dry rock. But, afore I'D take
advantage of a lazy, gawky boy--for it ain't anything else, though he's
good meanin' enough--that happened to fall sick in MY house, and coax
and cosset him, and wrap him in white cotton, and mother him, and sister
him, and Aunt Sukey him, and almost dry-nuss him gin'rally, jist to get
him sweet on me and on mine, and take the inside track of others--I'D be
an Injin! And if you'd allow it, Pop, you'd be wuss nor a nigger!"

"Sho!" said her father, kindling with that intense gratification with
which the male receives any intimation of alien feminine weakness. "It
ain't that, Minty, I wanter know!"

"It's jist that, Pop; and I ez good ez let 'em know I seed it. I ain't a
fool, if some folks do drop their eyes and pertend to wipe the laugh out
of their noses with a handkerchief when I let out to speak. I mayn't be
good enough kempany--"

"Look yer, Minty," interrupted the blacksmith, sternly, half rising
from his seat with every trace of his former weakness vanished from his
hardset face; "do you mean to say that they put on airs to ye--to MY
darter?"