He looked at me queerly.

"I reckon I'll go here and sit down, Davy," said he, "so's not to be in
the way." And he walked around the corner of the house.

Polly Ann sauntered down the trail slowly, as was her wont after such an
occasion. And the man behind the house twice whispered with extreme
caution, "How near is she?" before she came up the path.

"Have you been lonesome, Davy?" she said.

"No," said I, "I've had a visitor."

"It's not Chauncey Dike again?" she said. "He doesn't dare show his face
here."

"No, it wasn't Chauncey. This man would like to have seen you, Polly
Ann. He--" here I braced myself,--"he knew Tom McChesney. He called him
a good-for-nothing scamp."

"He did--did he!" said Polly Ann, very low. "I reckon it was good for
him I wasn't here."

I grinned.

"What are you laughing at, you little monkey," said Polly Ann, crossly.
"'Pon my soul, sometimes I reckon you are a witch."

"Polly Ann," I said, "did I ever do anything but good to you?"