"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 said very gently. He hesitated, stopped, thumped the stock of his gun on the ground, and wheeled. He looked at her doubtingly, and her eyes fell to the ground. "Tom McChesney," said she, "you're a born fool with wimmen." "Thank God for that," said he, his eyes devouring her. "Ay," said she. And then, "You want me to go to Kaintuckee with you?" "That's what I come for," he stammered, his assurance all run away again. "I'll go," she answered, so gently that her words were all but blown away by the summer wind. He laid his rifle against a stump at the edge of the corn-field, but she bounded clear of him. Then she stood, panting, her eyes sparkling. "I'll go," she said, raising her finger, "I'll go for one thing." "What's that?" he demanded.