A loud foot makes a still gun."
That was her unfailing method of control--the appeal to
intelligence. Polly sat singing, thoughtfully, the locket in her
hand. She had kissed the sacred thing and hung it by a ribbon to
her neck and bathed her eyes in the golden light of it and begun to
feel the subtle pathos in its odd message. She was thinking of the
handsome boy who came along that far May-day with the drove, and
who lately had returned to be her teacher at Linley School. Now,
he had so much dignity and learning, she liked him not half so well
and felt he had no longer any care for her. She blushed to think
how she had wept over his letter and kissed it every day for weeks.
Her dream was interrupted, presently, by the call of her brother
Tom. Having cut the frost on a window-pane, he stood peering out.
A man was approaching in the near field. His figure showed to the
boot-top, mounting hills of snow, and sank out of sight in the deep
hollows. It looked as if he were walking on a rough sea. In a
moment he came striding over the dooryard fence on a pair of
snowshoes.
"It's Mr. Trove, the teacher," said Polly, who quickly began to
shake her curls.
As the door swung open all greeted the young man.
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