of him, and then came a new letter from the man
Hope. It said now that Leblanc had moved on to Middlebury. Trove
went there, spent the last of his money, and sat one day in the
tavern office, considering what to do; for now, after weeks of
wandering, he was, it seemed, no nearer the man he sought. He had
soon reached a thought of some value: this information of the
unknown correspondent was, at least, unreliable, and he would give
it no further heed. What should he do? On that point he was not
long undecided, for while he was thinking of it a boy came and said:

"There's a lady waiting to see you in the parlour, sir."

He went immediately to the parlour above stairs, and there sat
Polly in her best gown--"the sweetest-looking creature," he was
wont to say, "this side of Paradise." Polly rose, and his
amazement checked his feet a moment. Then he advanced quickly and
would have kissed her, but she turned her face away and Stood
looking down. They were in a silence full of history. Twice she
tried to speak, but an odd stillness followed the first word,
giving possibly the more adequate expression to her thoughts.

"How came you here?" he whispered presently.

"I--I have been trying to find you." said she, at length.

He turned, looking from end to end of the large room; they were
quite alone.

"Polly," he whispered, "I believe you do love me."

For a little time she made no answer.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head; "that is, I--I do not think
I love you."

"Then why have you come to find me?"

"Because--because you did not come to find me," she answered,
glancing down at the toe of her pretty shoe.

She turned impatiently and stood by an open window. She was
looking out upon a white orchard. Odours of spring flower and
apple blossom were in the soft wings of the wind. Somehow they
mingled with her feeling and were always in her memory of that
hour. Her arm moved slowly and a 'kerchief went to her eyes.
Then, a little tremor in the plume upon her hat Trove went to her
side.

"Dear Polly!" he said, as he took her hand in his. Gently she
pulled it away.

"I--I cannot speak to you now," she whispered.

Then a long silence. The low music of a million tiny wings came
floating in at the window. It seemed, somehow, like a voice of the
past, with minutes, like the bees, hymning indistinguishably.
Polly and Trove were thinking of the same things. "I can doubt him
no more," she thought, "an