“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.

“That you’ll take Davy along with us.”

This time Tom had her, struggling like a wild thing in his arms, and kissing her black hair madly.  As for me, I might have been in the next settlement for all they cared.  And then Polly Ann, as red as a holly berry, broke away from him and ran to me, caught me up, and hid her face in my shoulder.  Tom McChesney stood looking at us, grinning, and that day I ceased to hate him.

“There’s no devil ef I don’t take him, Polly Ann,” said he.  “Why, he was a-goin’ to Kaintuckee ter find me for you.”

“What?” said she, raising her head.

“That’s what he told me afore he knew who I was.  He wanted to know ef I’d fetch him thar.”

“Little Davy!” cried Polly Ann.

The last I saw of them that day they were going off up the trace towards his mother’s, Polly Ann keeping ahead of him and just out of his reach.  And I was very, very happy.  For Tom McChesney had come back at last, and Polly Ann was herself once more.

As long as I live I shall never forget Polly Ann’s wedding.

She was all for delay, and such a bunch of coquetry as I have never seen.  She raised one objection after another; but Tom was a firm man, and his late experiences in the wilderness had made him impatient of trifling.  He had promised the Kentucky settlers, fighting for their lives in their blockhouses, that he would come back again.  And a resolute man who was a good shot was sorely missed in the country in those days.