I have a vivid recollection of a beloved, vigorous
figure swooping out of a cabin door and scattering a brood of children
right and left. "Polly Ann!" I said, and she halted, trembling.
"Tom," she cried, "Tom, it's Davy come back," and Tom himself flew out of
the door, ramrod in one hand and rifle in the other. Never shall I
forget them as they stood there, he grinning with sheer joy as of yore,
and she, with her hair flying and her blue gown snapping in the wind, in
a tremor between tears and laughter. I leaped to the ground, and she
hugged me in her arms as though I had been a child, calling my name again
and again, and little Tom pulling at the skirts of my coat. I caught the
youngster by the collar.
"Polly Ann," said I, "he's grown to what I was when you picked me up, a
foundling."
"And now it's little Davy no more," she answered, swept me a courtesy,
and added, with a little quiver in her voice, "ye are a gentleman now."
"My heart is still where it was," said I.
"Ay, ay," said Tom, "I'm sure o' that, Davy."
I was with them a fortnight in the familiar cabin, and then I took up my
journey northward, heavy at leaving again, but promising to see them from
time to time. For Tom was often at the Falls when he went a-scouting
into the Illinois country. It was, as of old, Polly Ann who ran the mill
and was the real bread-winner of the family.
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