Polly bounded to the door to seek her husbands help, and tell him all, Jock watching her the while; but as she reached the door her courage failed, and she turned away with a piteous wail.
“Oh, God help me!” she cried; “what shall I do?”
“Come and sit down, lass, and dry thy eyes,” said Jock, kindly. “Say thou forgives me. I’m very sorry, lass. I’m a down bad un, but I like owd Tom. He’s a good ’un, is Tom.”
“The best, the truest of men.”
“And I’m glad he’s got a good little true wife,” growled Jock. “There, it’s all right, ain’t it, Polly?” he said, taking her little hand in his and patting it. “Say thou forgives me.”
“But—but you don’t believe me,” sobbed Polly.
“But I do,” he said, kissing her little hand in a quiet, reverential way that ill accorded with his looks. “Say thou forgives me, lass.”
“I do forgive you, Jock,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Now let’s call dear Tom in and tell him all.”
“Nay,” said Jock, “he mustn’t be told. He’s troubled enough as it is. I’ll mak’ it reight.”
“No, no, Jock,” cried Polly, with her checks turning like ashes.