"And never married, after all. I wonder what became of the chap that was after her. And she's kep' her own name. Whatever did you mean, farmer,—talkin' as if you'd thought she was a widow?"
They were at cross purposes still. Farmer Paine turned towards the house. He had not taken in the sense of the last words.
"Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "She'll give you a welcome, Molly will. It'll startle her, maybe, just at first,—but you'll have a welcome, man. Care. Of course she cared."
With great strides the farmer reached the door, opened it, and called in lusty tones—
"Molly! Molly! Here's one come back, that we thought never to see again." A voice within him murmured—"And didn't wish to see again!"— but he put that down. "Now, don't you be taken aback," he called energetically. "Where's Jane? Where's Winnie? Here's your father, girls,—come back from the grave, as one may say. Never drowned at all, Molly. It's all a mistake."
"Their father! No, no!" Morris tried to interpose, as the nature of the farmer's error dawned upon him. But Mr. Paine, all the more because of that protesting voice within, pressed forward, talking eagerly—
"Here you are, girls. Aint this a bit of news? Your father's come back. Wasn't drowned at all, and never wrote. But he's back at last. Here, Jane,—Winnie—Molly—come along. It's your husband, Molly."
The two were confronted. Farmer Paine dragged forward the wanderer, a sheepish, puzzled figure; and Mrs. Morris moved to meet him.
She was imperturbable even now, though her face showed that she was startled. Jane stared with round eyes. Winnie trembled like a leaf.
"Molly, my dear, it's your husband. Him as you thought was dead."