She sat down on a log at the corner of the house, and pulled me down beside her. "And whar be you from?" I told her. It was impossible to look into her face and not tell her. She listened eagerly, now with compassion, and now showing her white teeth in amusement. And when I had done, much to my discomfiture, she seized me in her strong arms and kissed me. "Poor Davy," she cried, "you ain't got a home. You shall come home with us." Catching me by the hand, she ran like a deer across the road to where her grandfather was still quarrelling violently with Hans, and pulled him backward by the skirts of his hunting shirt. I looked for another and mightier explosion from the old backwoodsman, but to my astonishment he seemed to forget Hans's existence, and turned and smiled on her benevolently. "Polly Ann," said he, "what be you about now?" "Gran'pa," said she, "here's Davy Trimble, who's a good boy, and his pa is just killed by the Cherokees along with Baskin, and he wants work and a home, and he's comin' along with us." "All right, David," answered Mr. Ripley, mildly, "ef Polly Ann says so, you kin come. Whar was you raised?" I told him on the upper Yadkin. "You don't tell me," said he. "Did ye ever know Dan'l Boone?" "I did, indeed, sir," I answered, my face lighting up. "Can you tell me where he is now?" "He's gone to Kaintuckee, them new settlements, fer good. And ef I wasn't eighty years old, I'd go thar, too." "I reckon I'll go thar when I'm married," said Polly Ann, and blushed redder than ever. Drawing me to her, she said, "I'll take you, too, Davy." "When you marry that wuthless Tom McChesney," said her grandfather, testily. "He's not wuthless," said Polly hotly, "he's the best man in Rutherford's army. He'll git more sculps then any of 'em,--you see." "Tavy is ein gut poy," Hans put in, for he had recovered his composure. "I wish much he stay mit me." As for me, Polly Ann never consulted me on the subject--nor had she need to. I would have followed her to kingdom come, and at the thought of reaching the mountains my heart leaped with joy. We all slept in the one flea-infested, windowless room of the "tavern" that night; and before dawn I was up and untethered the horses, and Polly Ann and I together lifted the two bushels of alum salt on one of the beasts and the ploughshare on the other. By daylight we had left Hans and his farm forever. I can see the lass now, as she strode along the trace by the flowing river, through sunlight and shadow, straight and supple and strong. Sometimes she sang like a bird, and the forest rang. Sometimes she would make fun of her grandfather or of me; and again she would be silent for an hour at a time, staring ahead, and then I knew she was thinking of that Tom McChesney. She would wake from those reveries with a laugh, and give me a push to send me rolling down a bank. "What's the matter, Davy? You look as solemn as a wood-owl. What a little wiseacre you be!"