“How did he find his dear wife!” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her that he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!”
“'We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you will forget the family you served so well——'”
“A bit too well—eh, Joey!” cried the wife.
“'If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The little Alfred is a great comforter to me. I hold him to my breast and think of the big, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of suffering were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for ever.'”
“Oh, but isn't it a shame to take a poor girl in like that!” cried Mrs. Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I call it beastly, I do.”
“You don't know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to fall in love with him?”
“He could have helped it if he'd wanted to.”
“Well,” I said. “We aren't all heroes.”
“Oh, but that's different!—The big, good Alfred!—did you ever hear such Tommy-rot in your life?—Go on—what does she say at the end?”
“Er—' We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Elise.'”