She began to busy herself about the house.
"Too bad you took off that pretty dress, Polly," said Trove, when
he returned.
She came near and whispered to him.
"This," said she, looking down sadly, "is like the one I wore when
you first came."
"Well, first I thought of your arms," said he, "they were so
lovely! Then of your eyes and face and gown, but now I think only
of the one thing,--Polly."
The girl was happy, now, and went on with the work, singing, while
Trove lent a hand.
A score of people came up the hill from Pleasant Valley that night.
Tunk went after the old maids and came with them in the chaise at
supper time. There were two wagon-loads of young people, and,
before dusk, men and their wives came sauntering up the roadway and
in at the little gate.
Two or three of the older men wore suits of black broadcloth, the
stock and rolling collar--relics of "old decency" back in Vermont
or Massachusetts or Connecticut. Most were in rough homespun over
white shirts with no cuffs or collar. All gathered about Darrel,
who sat smoking outside the door. He rose and greeted each one of
the women with a bow and a compliment. The tinker was a man of
unfailing courtesy, and one thing in him was extremely odd,--even
there in that land of pure democracy,--he treated a scrub-woman
with the same politeness he would have accorded the finest lady.
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