"Had I to do such penance I should be damned," the tinker had answered. "Look, boy, mine are the larger by far. There's a man coming to see me at the Christmas time--a man o' busy feet. That pair in your hands I bought for him." "Day before yesterday," said Tunk, that evening, "I was up in the sugar-bush after a bit o' hickory, an' I see a man there, an' I didn't have no idee who 'twas. He was tall and had white hair an' whiskers an' a short blue coat. When I first see him he was settin' on a log, but 'fore I come nigh he got up an' made off." Although meagre, the description was sufficient. Trove had no longer any doubt of this--that the stranger he had seen at Darrel's had been hiding in the bush that day whose events were now so important. Whoever had brought the money, he must have known much of the plans and habits of the young man, and, the night before Trove's arrival at Robin's Inn, he came, probably, to the sugar woods, where he spent the next day in hiding. The young man was deeply troubled. Polly and her mother sat well into the night with him, hearing the story of his life, which he told in full, saving only the sin of his father. Of that he had neither the right nor the heart to tell. "God only knows what is the next chapter," said he, at last. "It may rob me of all that I love in this world." "But not of me," said Polly, whispering in his ear. "I wish I were sure of that," he answered. XXVI The Coming of the Cars That year was one of much reckoning there in the land of the hills. A year it was of historic change and popular excitement. To begin with, a certain rich man bought a heavy cannon, which had roared at the British on the frontier in 1812, and gave it to the town of Hillsborough. It was no sooner dumped on the edge of the little park than it became a target of criticism. The people were to be taxed for the expense of mounting it--"Taxed fer a thing we ain't no more need of than a bear has need of a hair-brush," said one citizen. Those Yankees came of men who helped to fling the tea into Boston harbour, and had some hereditary fear of taxes. Hunters and trappers were much impressed by it. They felt it over, peering curiously into the muzzle, with one eye closed. "Ye couldn't kill nuthin' with it," said one of them. "If I was to pick it up an' hit ye over the head with it, I guess ye wouldn't think so," said another. Familiarity bred contempt, and by and by they began to shoot at it from the tavern steps. The gun lay rejected and much in the way until its buyer came to his own rescue and agreed to pay for the mounting. Then came another and more famous controversy as to which way they should "p'int" the gun. Some favoured one direction, some another, and at last, by way of compliment, they "p'inted" it squarely at the house of the giver on the farther side of the park. And it was loaded to the muzzle with envy and ingratitude.