XI
The Old Rag Doll
The second week of September Trove went down the hills again to school, with food and furniture beside him in the great wagon. He had not been happy since he got home. Word of that evening with the pretty "Vaughn girl" had come to the ears of Allen.
"You're too young for that, boy," said he, the day Trove came. "You must promise me one thing—that you'll keep away from her until you are eighteen."
In every conviction Allen was like the hills about him—there were small changes on the surface, but underneath they were ever the same rock-boned, firm, unmoving hills.
"But I'm in love with her," said the boy, with dignity. "It is more than I can bear. I tell you, sir, that I regard the young lady with—with deep affection." He had often a dignity of phrase and manner beyond his years.
"Then it will last," said Allen. "You're only a boy, and for a while I know what is best for you."
Trove had to promise, and, as that keen edge of his feeling wore away, doubted no more the wisdom of his father. He wrote Polly a letter, quaint with boyish chivalry and frankness—one of a package that has lain these many years in old ribbons and the scent of lavender.
He went to the Sign of the Dial as soon as he got to Hillsborough that day. Darrel was at home, and a happy time it was, wherein each gave account of the summer. A stranger sat working at the small bench. Darrel gave him no heed, chatting as if they were quite alone.
"And what is the news in Hillsborough?" said Trove, his part of the story finished.