"Oh, George, not when compared with Mehalah." De Witt fidgeted in his seat.
"Mehalah is quite of another kind, you see, Miss."
"I'm no miss, if you please. Call me Phœbe. It is snugger."
"She's more" he puzzled his head for an explanation of his meaning. "She is more boaty than you are"
"Phœbe."
"Than you are," with hesitation, "Phœbe."
"I know;—strides about like a man, smokes and swears, and chews tobacco."
"No, no, you mistake me, M."
"Phœbe."
"You mistake me, Phœbe."
"I have often wondered, George, what attracted you to Mehalah. To be sure, it will be a very convenient thing for you to have a wife who can swab the deck, and tar the boat and calk her. But then I should have fancied a man would have liked something different from a—sort of a man-woman—a Jack Tar or Ben Brace in petticoats, to sit by his fireside, and to take to his heart. But of course it is not for me to speak on such matters, only I somehow can't help thinking about you, George, and it worries me so, I lie awake at nights, and wonder and wonder, whether you will be happy. She has the temper of a tom cat, I'm told. She blazes up like gunpowder."
De Witt fidgeted yet more uneasily. He did not like this conversation.
"Then she is half a gipsy. So you mayn't be troubled with her long. She'll keep with you as long as she likes, and then up with her pack, on with her wading boots. Yo heave hoy! and away she goes."
De Witt, in his irritation, gave the horse a stinging switch across the flank, and he started forward. A little white hand was laid, not now on the reins, but on his hand.
"I'm so sorry, George, my friend; after your kindness, I have teased you unmercifully, but I can't help it. When I think of Mehalah in her wading boots and jersey and cap, it makes me laugh—and yet when I think of her and you together, I'm ashamed to say I feel as if I could cry. George!" she suddenly ejaculated.
