been happy since he got home. Word of that evening with
the pretty "Vaughn girl" had come to the ears of Allen.

"You're too young for that, boy," said he, the day Trove came.
"You must promise me one thing--that you'll keep away from her
until you are eighteen."

In every conviction Allen was like the hills about him--there were
small changes on the surface, but underneath they were ever the
same rock-boned, firm, unmoving hills.

"But I'm in love with her," said the boy, with dignity. "It is more
than I can bear. I tell you, sir, that I regard the young lady
with--with deep affection." He had often a dignity of phrase and
manner beyond his years.

"Then it will last," said Allen. "You're only a boy, and for a
while I know what is best for you."

Trove had to promise, and, as that keen edge of his feeling wore
away, doubted no more the wisdom of his father. He wrote Polly a
letter, quaint with boyish chivalry and frankness--one of a package
that has lain these many years in old ribbons and the scent of
lavender.

He went to the Sign of the Dial as soon as he got to Hillsborough
that day. Darrel was at home, and a happy time it was, wherein
each gave account of the summer. A stranger sat working at the
small bench. Darrel gave him no heed, chatting as if they were
quite alone.

"And what is the news in Hillsborough?" said Trove, his part of the
story finished.

"Have ye not heard?" said Darrel, in a whisper. "Parson Hammond
hath swapped horses."

Trove began to laugh.

"Nay, that is not all," said the tinker, his pipe in hand. "Deacon
Swackhammer hath smitten the head o' Brooke. Oh, sor, 'twas a
comedy. Brooke gave him an ill-sounding word. Swackhammer
removed his coat an' flung it down. 'Deacon, lie there,' said he.
Then each began, as it were, to bruise the head o' the serpent.
Brooke--poor man!--he got the worst of it. An' sad to tell! his
wife died the very next day."

"Of what?" Trove inquired,

"Marry, I do not know; it may have been joy," said the tinker,
lighting his pipe. "Ah, sor, Brooke is tough. He smites the
helping hand an' sickens the heart o' kindness. I offered him help
an' sympathy, an' he made it all bitter with suspicion o' me. I
turned away, an' said I to meself, 'Darrel, thy head is soft--a
babe could brain thee with a lady's fan.'"

Darrel puffed his pipe in silence a little time.

"Every one hates Brooke," said Trove.

"Once," said Darrel, presently, "a