"
He had taken her handkerchief, and with a tender touch was drying
her eyes.
"Now I can see thee smiling, an' thy lashes, child--they are like
the spray o' the fern tip when the dew is on it."
Polly rose and went away into the house. Darrel wiped his eyes,
and the widow sat, her chin upon her hand, looking down sadly and
thoughtfully. Darrel was first to speak.
"Did it ever occur to ye, Martha Vaughn, this child o' thine is
near a woman but has seen nothing o' the world ?"
"I think of that often," said she, the mother's feeling in her
voice.
"Well, if I understand him, it's a point of honour with the boy not
to pledge her to marriage until she has seen more o' life an' made
sure of her own heart. Now, consider this: let her go to the
school at Hillsborough, an' I'll pay the cost."
The widow looked up at him without speaking.
"I'm an old man near the end o' this journey, an' ye've known me
many years," Darrel went on. "There's nothing can be said against
it. Nay; I'll have no thanks. Would ye thank the money itself,
the bits o' paper? No; nor Roderick Darrel, who, in this business,
is no more worthy o' gratitude. Hush! who comes?"
It was Polly herself in a short, red skirt, her arms bare to the
elbows.
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