"That time's past," retorted she; "I reckon all men are liars. What are
ye tom-foolin' about here for, Tom McChesney, when yere Ma's breakin' her
heart? I wonder ye come back at all."

"Polly Ann," says he, very serious, "I ain't a boaster. But when I think
what I come through to git here, I wonder that I come back at all. The
folks shut up at Harrod's said it was sure death ter cross the mountains
now. I've walked two hundred miles, and fed seven times, and my sculp's
as near hangin' on a Red Stick's belt as I ever want it to be."

"Tom McChesney," said Polly Ann, with her hands on her hips and her
sunbonnet tilted, "that's the longest speech you ever made in your life."

I declare I lost my temper with Polly Ann then, nor did I blame Tom
McChesney for turning on his heel and walking away. But he had gone no
distance at all before Polly Ann, with three springs, was at his
shoulder.

"Tom!" she said very gently.

He hesitated, stopped, thumped the stock of his gun on the ground, and
wheeled. He looked at her doubtingly, and her eyes fell to the ground.

"Tom McChesney," said she, "you're a born fool with wimmen."

"Thank God for that," said he, his eyes devouring her.

"Ay," said she. And then, "You want me to go to Kaintuckee with you?"