“And I bring a crown,” said Trove, as he kissed her and put a wreath of clover and wild roses on her brow.

“I thought something dreadful had happened,” said Polly, with tears in her eyes.  “For three days I’ve been dressed up waiting.”

“An’ a grand dress it is,” said Barrel, surveying her pretty figure.

“I’ve nearly worn it out waiting,” said she, looking down, her voice trembling.

“Tut, tut, girl—­’tis a lovely dress,” the tinker insisted.

“It is one my mother wore when she was a girl,” said Polly, proudly.  “It was made over.”

“O—­oh!  God love thee, child!” said the tinker, in a tone of great admiration. “’Tis beautiful.”

“And, you came through the woods?” said Polly.

“Through wood and field,” was Trove’s answer.

“I wonder you knew the way.”

“The little god o’ love—­he shot his arrows, an’ we followed them as the hunter follows the bee,” said Darrel.

“It was nice of you to bring the flowers,” said Polly.  “They are beautiful.”

“But not like those in thy cheeks, dear child.  Where is the good mother?” said Darrel.

“She and the boys are gone a-berrying, and I have been making jelly.  We’re going to have a party to-night for your birthday.”

“‘An’ rise up before the hoary head an’ honour the face o’ the old man,’” said Darrel, thoughtfully.  “But, child, honour is not for them that tinker clocks.”

“‘Honour and fame from no condition rise,’” said Polly, who sat in a chair, knitting.

“True, dear girl!  Thy lips are sweeter than the poet’s thought.”

“You’ll turn my head;” the girl was laughing as she spoke.

“An it turn to me, I shall be happy,” said the tinker, smiling, and then he began to feel the buttons on his waistcoat.  “Loves me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not—­”

“She loves you,” said Polly, with a smile.

“She loves me, hear that, boy,” said the tinker.  “Ah, were she not bespoke!  Well, God be praised, I’m happy,” he added, filling his pipe.

“And seventy,” said Polly.

“Ay, three score an’ ten—­small an’ close together, now, as I look off at them, like a flock o’ pigeons in the sky.”

“What do you think?” said Polly, as she dropped her knitting.  “The two old maids are coming to-night.”

“The two old maids!” said Darrel; “‘tis a sign an’ a wonder.”

“Oh, a great change has come over them,” Polly went on.  “It’s all the work o’ the teacher.  You know he really coaxed them into sliding with him last winter.”

“I heard of it—­the gay Philander!” said Darrel, laughing merrily.  “Ah! he’s a wonder with the maidens!”

“I know it,” said Polly, with a sigh.

Trove was idly brushing the mat of grass with a walking-stick.  He loved fun, but he had no conceit for this kind of banter.

“It was one of my best accomplishments,” said he, blushing.  “I taught them that there was really a world outside their house and that men were not all as lions, seeking whom they might devour.”