"Whoa there, little lady! Growing up awful quick ain't ya?"
Eliza beamed up at the tall woodcutter, a friend of her father's. "Yup!"
He knelt down to casually tousle her hair, a windblown tumble of sunshiney golden curls. "By the Goddess, coulda easily mistaken you for your mum! Yessirree, you're her spitting image, lass."
She frowned in distaste. "Spitting?" Spitting was unladylike and Mommy told her not to.
The man laughed and straightened again. "Figure'a speech, little lady. Goddess knows you would never spit. You do your mum proud now, don't you, Maysie Junior?"
Eliza smiled her widest. "I try!"