gain?" she said. "He doesn't dare show his face
here."

"No, it wasn't Chauncey. This man would like to have seen you, Polly
Ann. He--" here I braced myself,--"he knew Tom McChesney. He called him
a good-for-nothing scamp."

"He did--did he!" said Polly Ann, very low. "I reckon it was good for
him I wasn't here."

I grinned.

"What are you laughing at, you little monkey," said Polly Ann, crossly.
"'Pon my soul, sometimes I reckon you are a witch."

"Polly Ann," I said, "did I ever do anything but good to you?"

She made a dive at me, and before I could escape caught me in her strong
young arms and hugged me.

"You're the best friend I have, little Davy," she cried.

"I reckon that's so," said the stranger, who had risen and was standing
at the corner.

Polly Ann looked at him like a frightened doe. And as she stared,
uncertain whether to stay or fly, the color surged into her cheeks and
mounted to her fair forehead.

"Tom!" she faltered.

"I've come back, Polly Ann," said he. But his voice was not so clear as
a while ago.

Then Polly Ann surprised me.

"What made you come back?" said she, as though she didn't care a
minkskin. Whereat Mr. McChesney shifted his feet.

"I reckon it was to fetch you, Polly Ann."

"I like that!" cried she. "He's come to fetch me, Davy." That was the
first time in months her laugh had sounded natural. "I heerd you fetched
one gal acrost the mountains, and now you want to fetch another."

"Polly Ann," says he, "there was a time when you knew a truthful man from
a liar."

"That time's past," retorted she; "I reckon all men are liars. What are
ye tom-foolin' about here for, Tom McChesney, when yere Ma's breakin' her
heart? I wonder ye come back at all."

"Polly Ann," says he, very serious, "I ain't a boaster. But when I think
what I come through to git here, I wonder that I come back at all. The
folks shut up at Harrod's said it was sure death ter cross the mountains
now. I've walked two hundred miles, and fed seven times, and my sculp's
as near hangin' on a Red Stick's belt as I ever want it to be."

"Tom McChesney," said Polly Ann, with her hands on her hips and her
sunbonnet tilted, "that's the longest speech you ever made in your life."

I declare I lost my temper with Polly Ann then, nor did I blame Tom
McChesney for turning on his heel and walking away. But he had gone no
distance at all before Polly Ann, with three springs, was at his
shoulder.

"Tom!" she sai