“Mayhap he couldn’t,” said the stranger.

“Chauncey Dike said he went off with another girl into Kaintuckee.”

“And what did Polly Ann say to that?” the stranger demanded.

“She asked Chauncey if Tom McChesney gave him the scalps he had on his belt.”

At that he laughed in good earnest, and slapped his breech-clouts repeatedly.  All at once he stopped, and stared up the ridge.

“Is that Polly Ann?” said he.

I looked, and far up the trail was a speck.

“I reckon it is,” I answered, and wondered at his eyesight.  “She travels over to see Tom McChesney’s Ma once in a while.”

He looked at me queerly.

“I reckon I’ll go here and sit down, Davy,” said he, “so’s not to be in the way.”  And he walked around the corner of the house.

Polly Ann sauntered down the trail slowly, as was her wont after such an occasion.  And the man behind the house twice whispered with extreme caution, “How near is she?” before she came up the path.

“Have you been lonesome, Davy?” she said.

“No,” said I, “I’ve had a visitor.”

“It’s not Chauncey Dike again?” she said.  “He doesn’t dare show his face here.”

“No, it wasn’t Chauncey.  This man would like to have seen you, Polly Ann.  He—­” here I braced myself,—­“he knew Tom McChesney.  He called him a good-for-nothing scamp.”

“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.”