There was a moment's silence; then the farmer's wife, with a visible effort to compose herself, said, “Lucy Meadows, now.”
The tears came into Samuel Flint's eyes. “Let us shake hands, Lucy,” he said: “my son has married your daughter.”
All but Jacob were freshly startled at these words. The two shook hands, and then Samuel, turning to Susan's father, said: “And this is your husband, Lucy. I am glad to make his acquaintance.”
“Your father, Jacob!” Susan cried; “what does it all mean?”
Jacob's face grew red, and the old habit of hanging his head nearly came back upon him. He knew not what to say, and looked wistfully at his father.
“Come into the house and sit down,” said the latter. “I think we shall all feel better when we have quietly and comfortably talked the matter over.”
They went into the quaint, old-fashioned parlor, which had already been transformed by Susan's care, so that much of its shabbiness was hidden. When all were seated, and Samuel Flint perceived that none of the others knew what to say, he took a resolution which, for a man of his mood and habit of life, required some courage.
“Three of us here are old people,” he began, “and the two young ones love each other. It was so long ago, Lucy, that it cannot be laid to my blame if I speak of it now. Your husband, I see, has an honest heart, and will not misunderstand either of us. The same thing often turns up in life; it is one of those secrets that everybody knows, and that everybody talks about except the persons concerned. When I was a young man, Lucy, I loved you truly, and I faithfully meant to make you my wife.”
“I thought so too, for a while,” said she, very calmly.
Farmer Meadows looked at his wife, and no face was ever more beautiful than his, with that expression of generous pity shining through it.