"You must promise me one thing--that you'll keep away from her
until you are eighteen."
In every conviction Allen was like the hills about him--there were
small changes on the surface, but underneath they were ever the
same rock-boned, firm, unmoving hills.
"But I'm in love with her," said the boy, with dignity. "It is more
than I can bear. I tell you, sir, that I regard the young lady
with--with deep affection." He had often a dignity of phrase and
manner beyond his years.
"Then it will last," said Allen. "You're only a boy, and for a
while I know what is best for you."
Trove had to promise, and, as that keen edge of his feeling wore
away, doubted no more the wisdom of his father. He wrote Polly a
letter, quaint with boyish chivalry and frankness--one of a package
that has lain these many years in old ribbons and the scent of
lavender.
He went to the Sign of the Dial as soon as he got to Hillsborough
that day. Darrel was at home, and a happy time it was, wherein
each gave account of the summer. A stranger sat working at the
small bench. Darrel gave him no heed, chatting as if they were
quite alone.
"And what is the news in Hillsborough?" said Trove, his part of the
story finished.
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