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.

"You don't tell me," said he. "Did ye ever know Dan'l Boone?"

"I did, indeed, sir," I answered, my face lighting up. "Can you tell me
where he is now?"