"Polly," says he, "is it because you're dead that you've come back to me?" An' he makes a step, gropin' an' staggerin', an' would have fell if she hadn't run an' caught him, an' pushed him into a chair.
"Joe," she cries out, kneelin' down before him,--"Joe, dear Joe, what's the matter? It's Polly, an'--" an' she puts her face against his vest in the old way-- "an' you mustn't frighten me."
That, an' the touch of her hand brings him back, an' he knows in a second as he has her safe, an' then he catches her an' begins to hug her tight, too shook to say a word.
But she pulls back a bit, half frightened an' half joyful.
"Joe," she says, "didn't you think I was at the Bonnys'? Have you been anxious?" An' then, a-laughin' nervous-like, "You mustn't squeeze so, Joe--don't you see?"
An' she lays the bundle on his knee an' opens the shawl an' shows him what's in it.
"He's--he's only a little one," she says, a-laughin' an' cryin' true woman fashion, but he grows every day, an' he's noticin' already."
Joe makes an effort an' just saves hisself from bustin out in a sob as might have told her all--an' this time he folds 'em both up an' holds 'em, a-tryin' to stumble at a prayer in his mind.
"Polly," he says after a bit, "tell me all about it, for I don't understand how it is as it's come about."
But girl as she is, she sees as there's somethin' behind an' she gives him a long look.
"Joe," she says, "I've more to tell than just how this happened, an' when I lay quiet with little Joe on my arm, I made up my mind as the day I brought him home to you, was the day as had come for you to hear it, an' so you shall--but first I must lay him down an' make the room warm."
Which she gets up an' does, an' wont let Joe do nothin' but watch her, an' while she's at it he sees her sweet young face a-workin', an' when everythin's done, an' the fire burnin' bright, an' the kettle on, an' the little fellow comfortable on her arm-- she draws a little wooden stool up to his knees an' sits down on it an' her face is a-workin' still.
"Not as I'm afraid to tell you now, Joe, though I've held it back so long; but sometimes I've thought as the day would never come when I could, an' now I'm so glad--so glad," she whispers.
An' then a-holdin' his hand an' the child's too, she tells him the whole story of what her secret was an' why she kep' it one, an' as you may guess it was all about the man as Joe had seen her with.
The night she'd fainted in the street she'd found out his cruel heart for the first time an' it had well-nigh broke her own. The people as she worked for had turned her off through hearin' of him, an' her own mother, as was a hard, strict woman, had believed the scandal an' turned against her too. An' then when she had gone to him in her fear an' trouble he had struck her down with words as was worse than blows.
"But bein' so young, Joe, an' so weak," she says, "I couldn't forget him, an' it seemed as if I couldn't bear my life; an' I knew that if he come back again it would be harder to turn away from him than ever. An' it was--an' when he follorred me an' tried me so as I knew as I'd give up if there wasn't something to hold me strong. An' I asked you to save me that night, Joe, an' you said you would. Joe," she whispers, "don't hate me for bein' so near to sin an' shame."
After a little while she tells him the rest.
"But even when he knowed I was a good man's wife he wouldn't let me rest. He tried to see me again an' again, an' wrote me letters an' besot me in every way, knowin' as I wasn't worthy of you, an' didn't love you as I ought. But the time come when he grew weaker an' you grew stronger, Joe. How could I live with you day after day an' see the contrast between you, an' not learn to love the man as was so patient an' true to me, an despise him as only loved hisself an' was too selfish an' cruel to have either mercy or pity? So the day come when I knew I needn't fear him nor myself no more an' I told him so. It was then I told you I was goin' to be happy; an' Joe dear, I was happy--particular lately. Do you believe me, Joe?--say as you do."
"Yes, Polly," says Joe. "Thank God!"
"Kiss me, then," she says, "an' kiss little Joe, an' then I'll tell you how the other come about."
He did it prompt, an' with a heavin' heart, an' then the other was soon told.
"I hadn't seen him for a long time when you went away," she tells him, "an' I thought I'd seen the last of him; but you hadn't been gone a week before I met him face to face in the street; an' that same night a letter come, an' through me bein' lonesome an' nervous-like, an' seein' him so determined, it frightened me, an' I made up my mind I'd go to the Bonnys an' get heartened up a little before you come back. So I started all in a hurry as soon as I could get ready. But before I'd got more than half way to my journey's end, we had a accident,--not much of a one, for the trains as met each other wasn't goin' so fast but that they could be stopped in time to save much real harm bein' done, an' people was mostly badly shook an' frightened. But I fainted away, an' when I come to myself I was lyin' on a bed in a farm- house near the line, an' the farmer's wife, as was a good soul, she was a-takin' care of me, an' says she, `Where's your husband, my girl?' an' I says, `I'm not sure I know, ma'am,' an faints away again.
"Well, the next mornin' I was lyin' there still, but little Joe was on my arm, an' I had the strength to tell where I lived, an' how it was I didn't know where to send for you. An' the farmer's wife was like a mother to me, an' she cheers me up, an' says, `Well, never mind. Bless us! what a joyful surprise it'll be to the man! Think of that!' An' I did think of it until I made up my mind as I wouldn't send no word at all until I could come home myself; for, says I, `He'll think I'm at the Bonnys', an' it'll save him bein' worried.' An' that was how it was, Joe," kind of hesitatin'. "Have you anything to tell me?"
She looks at him timid an' gentle, an' he looks down at the fire. "Not if you'd rather not, Joe," she says; but I thought----"
Joe, he thinks a bit, an' then answers her grave an' slow:
"Polly," says he, "I found a piece of that there letter. Will you forgive me, an' let it pass at that for little Joe's sake?"
She stoops down and kisses his hand, with tears in her eyes.
"Yes," she answers, "an' for yours too. You've more to forgive than me, Joe,--an' it was quite nat'ral."
An' she never asks him another question, but sets there sweet an' content, an' they both sets there almost too happy to speak; an' there's such a look in her face as goes to Joe's heart, an' he breaks the quiet, at last, a-sayin':
"Polly,--I hope it aint no wrong in me a-thinkin' it,--for this aint no time for me to have none but the reverentest an' gratefulest humble heart,--but as you set there with the little fellow so peaceful on your breast, I can't help bein' 'minded of the Mother as we see in the churches, an' as some prays to."
Well, mum, that's the whole story, an' somehow it's run out longer than I thought for; but there's nothin' more left to say, but that if you could see that there little Joe to-day he'd astonish you; for though but five year old, I'm blessed if he don't know every figger in the collection by name, an' is as familiar with Henry the Eighthses fam'ly as I am myself; an' says he to me only the other day, "Father----" at least---- Well, mum, I suppose I may as well own up to it, now I've done,--though a nat'ral back'ardness made it easier for me to tell it the other way. But you're right in supposin' so; an' not to put too fine a point to it, the story is mine,--that there Joe bein' me an' Polly my wife, an' that there collection Smethurstses.
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