“You damned Dutchmen be all Tories, and worse,” he cried; “you stay here and till your farms while our boys are off in the hill towns fighting Cherokees.  I wish the devils had every one of your fat sculps.  Polly Ann, water the nags.”

Hans replied to this sally with great vigor, lapsing into Dutch.  Polly Ann led the scrawny ponies to the trough, but her eyes snapped with merriment as she listened.  She was a wonderfully comely lass, despite her loose cotton gown and poke-bonnet and the shoepacks on her feet.  She had blue eyes, the whitest, strongest of teeth, and the rosiest of faces.

“Gran’pa hates a Dutchman wuss’n pizen,” she said to me.  “So do I. We’ve all been burned out and sculped up river—­and they never give us so much as a man or a measure of corn.”

I helped her feed the animals, and tether them, and loose their bells for the night, and carry the packs under cover.

“All the boys is gone to join Rutherford and lam the Indians,” she continued, “so Gran’pa and I had to go to the settlements.  There wahn’t any one else.  What’s your name?” she demanded suddenly.

I told her.

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.