This remark admitted of but one interpretation.

"Why!" said Abner; "do you want her to marry _him_?"--him, a fellow so
slight, frivolous, invertebrate!

"Oh, he's a very decent little chap," returned Giles. "He'll be kind to
her--he'll see she's taken good care of."

"But do you want him to marry _her_?"--her, so bold, so improper, so
prone to seek entertainment in the woes of others!

"Oh, well, she's a very fair little chick," replied Giles patiently.
"She'll get past her notions pretty soon and be just as good a wife as
anybody could ask."

One of those quiescent, featureless Decembers was on the land--a November
prolonged. The brown country-side, swept and garnished, was still
awaiting the touch of winter's hand. The air was crisp yet passive, and
abundant sunshine flooded alike the heights and hollows of the rolling
uplands that spread through various shades of subdued umber and
meditative blue toward the confines of a wavering, indeterminate horizon.
The Giles homestead stood high on a bluff; and above the last of the
islands that cluttered the river beneath it the spires of the village
appeared, a mile or two down-stream.

"Now for the barn-yard!" cried Clytie, after the first roundabout view
from the front of the bluff. "Adrian mustn't lose any time with his
cows."

Giles led the way to a trim inclosure.