I told her.
She sat down on a log at the corner of the house, and pulled me down beside her.
“And whar be you from?”
I told her. It was impossible to look into her face and not tell her. She listened eagerly, now with compassion, and now showing her white teeth in amusement. And when I had done, much to my discomfiture, she seized me in her strong arms and kissed me.
“Poor Davy,” she cried, “you ain't got a home. You shall come home with us.”
Catching me by the hand, she ran like a deer across the road to where her grandfather was still quarrelling violently with Hans, and pulled him backward by the skirts of his hunting shirt. I looked for another and mightier explosion from the old backwoodsman, but to my astonishment he seemed to forget Hans's existence, and turned and smiled on her benevolently.
“Polly Ann,” said he, “what be you about now?”
“Gran'pa,” said she, “here's Davy Trimble, who's a good boy, and his pa is just killed by the Cherokees along with Baskin, and he wants work and a home, and he's comin' along with us.”
“All right, David,” answered Mr. Ripley, mildly, “ef Polly Ann says so, you kin come. Whar was you raised?”
I told him on the upper Yadkin.