Davy," said Polly Ann, and she handed me
a little buckskin bag on which she had been sewing. I opened it with
trembling fingers, and poured out, chinking on the table, such a motley
collection of coins as was never seen,--Spanish milled dollars, English
sovereigns and crowns and shillings, paper issues of the Confederacy,
and I know not what else. Tom looked on with a grin, while little Tom
and Peggy reached out their hands in delight, their mother vigorously
blocking their intentions.

"Ye've earned it yerself," said Polly Ann, forestalling my protest;
"'tis what ye got by the mill, and I've laid it by bit by bit for yer
eddication."

"And what do you get?" I cried, striving by feigned anger to keep the
tears back from my eyes. "Have you no family to support?"

"Faith," she answered, "we have the mill that ye gave us, and the farm,
and Tom's rifle. I reckon we'll fare better than ye think, tho' we'll
miss ye sore about the place."

I picked out two sovereigns from the heap, dropped them in the bag, and
thrust it into my hunting shirt.

"There," said I, my voice having no great steadiness, "not a penny more.
I'll keep the bag for your sake, Polly Ann, and I'll take the mare for
Tom's."

She had had a song on her lips ever since our coming back from Danville,
seven days agone, a song on her lips and banter on her tongue, as she
made me a new hunting shirt and breeches for the journey across the
mountains. And now with a sudden movement she burst into tears and flung
her arms about my neck.

"Oh, Davy, 'tis no time to be stubborn," she sobbed, "and eddication
is a costly thing. Ever sence I found ye on the trace, years ago, I've
thought of ye one day as a great man. And when ye come back to us so big
and l'arned, I'd wish to be saying with pride that I helped ye."

"And who else, Polly Ann?" I faltered, my heart racked with the parting.
"You found me a homeless waif, and you gave me a home and a father and
mother."

"Davy, ye'll not forget us when ye're great, I know ye'll not. Tis not
in ye."

She stood back and smiled at me through her tears. The light of heaven
was in that smile, and I have dreamed of it even since age has crept
upon me. Truly, God sets his own mark on the pure in heart, on the
unselfish.

I glanced for the last time around the rude cabin, every timber of which
was dedicated to our sacrifices and our love: the fireplace with its
rough stones, on the pegs the quaint butternut garments whi