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. 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."