"Yours truly,
"R. DARREL of the Blessed Isles."
Trove read the letter many times, and, as he grew strong, he began to think with clearness and deliberation of his last night in Hillsborough. Darrel was the greatest problem of all. Pondering he saw, or thought he saw, the bottom of it. Events were coming, however, that robbed him utterly of his conceit and all the hope it gave him. The sad lines about his father kept him ever in some doubt. A week more, and he was in the cutter one morning, behind Phyllis, on his way to Robin's Inn. As he drew up at the old, familiar gate the boys ran out to meet him. Somehow they were not the same boys—they were a bit more sober and timid. Tunk came with a "Glad to see ye, mister," and took the mare. The widow stood in the doorway, smiling sadly.
"How is Polly?" said Trove.
For a moment there was no answer. He walked slowly to the steps, knowing well that some new blow was about to fall upon him.
"She is better, but has been very sick," said the widow.
Trove sat down without speaking and threw his coat open.
"You, too, have been very sick," said Mrs. Vaughn.
"Yes, very," said he.
"I heard of it and went to your home one day, but you didn't know me."
"Tell me, where is Polly?"