It was Polly herself in a short, red skirt, her arms bare to the elbows.  She began to busy herself about the house.

“Too bad you took off that pretty dress, Polly,” said Trove, when he returned.

She came near and whispered to him.

“This,” said she, looking down sadly, “is like the one I wore when you first came.”

“Well, first I thought of your arms,” said he, “they were so lovely!  Then of your eyes and face and gown, but now I think only of the one thing,—­Polly.”

The girl was happy, now, and went on with the work, singing, while Trove lent a hand.

A score of people came up the hill from Pleasant Valley that night.  Tunk went after the old maids and came with them in the chaise at supper time.  There were two wagon-loads of young people, and, before dusk, men and their wives came sauntering up the roadway and in at the little gate.

Two or three of the older men wore suits of black broadcloth, the stock and rolling collar—­relics of “old decency” back in Vermont or Massachusetts or Connecticut.  Most were in rough homespun over white shirts with no cuffs or collar.  All gathered about Darrel, who sat smoking outside the door.  He rose and greeted each one of the women with a bow and a compliment.  The tinker was a man of unfailing courtesy, and one thing in him was extremely odd,—­even there in that land of pure democracy,—­he treated a scrub-woman with the same politeness he would have accorded the finest lady.  But he was in no sense a flatterer; none that saw him often were long in ignorance of that.  His rebuke was even quicker than his compliment, as many had reason to know.  And there was another curious thing about Darrel,—­these people and many more loved him, gathering about his chair as he tinkered, hearing with delight the lore and wisdom of his tongue, but, after all, there were none that knew him now any better than the first day he came.  A certain wall of dignity was ever between him and them.

Half an hour before dark, the yard was thronged with people.  They listened with smiles or a faint ripple of merry feeling as he greeted each.

“Good evening, Mrs. Beach,” he would say.  “Ah! the snow is falling on thy head.  An’ the sunlight upon thine, dear girl,” he added, taking the hand of the woman’s daughter.

“An’ here’s Mr. Tilly back from the far west,” he continued.  “How fare ye, sor?”

“I’m well, but a little too fat,” said Thurston Tilly.

“Well, sor, unless it make thy heart heavy, be content.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hooper,—­that is a cunning hand with the pies.

“Ah, Mrs. Rood, may the mouse never leave thy meal bag with a tear in his eye.

“Not a gray hair in thy head, Miss Tower, nor even a gray thought.

“An’ here’s Mrs. Barbour—­’twill make me sweat to carry me pride now.  How goes the battle?”

“The Lord has given me sore affliction,” said she.